


The Sense Of Me

by trecoolio



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Institutions, More emphasis on a Caulscott friendship than romance tbh, Omniscient Arcadia Bay, PTSD, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 228,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5061229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trecoolio/pseuds/trecoolio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Max chooses to sacrifice Chloe, she finds herself determined to make this a new beginning, a timeline that won't be twisted for the worse because of her interference. Maybe this time, she might just be able to do some good. Nathan Prescott seems like the best possible - or worst - place to start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> SO, um, HI. I have absolutely no idea what this is, but I seriously love what it could turn into. Basically my attempt at giving Nathan the (eventual) ending he deserved, jumping in straight from the aftermath of the Sacrifice Chloe choice. Any mistakes in this story are all my fault. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!!

_ _

 

_This incredible art was made by  the supremely talented sparrowkeating_

 

* * *

 

 

 _"Here we are, trapped in the amber of the moment. There is no why."_  -- **Kurt Vonnegut**

 

* * *

 

 

The first time had torn her apart. It had been a hollow, searing shock that sliced through her gut, an icy-cold rush in her chest as her heart plummeted all the way to her stomach. Her body had moved of its own accord, rounding the corner of the bathroom stall and stretching out her hand in what had felt like rapid-movement and slow motion, all at once. She remembered seeing the blood seep through the thin white material of Chloe's shirt as she lay on the splattered tiles, her skin already fading to wax-white, bile rising in her throat. And that was before she'd even recognized that it was Chloe,  _her_  Chloe, slipping away before her eyes. 

Max had wanted to rip Nathan limb from limb. Just... utterly destroy him. She'd wanted to see him suffer. Her head had spun with the boiling rage and the sickening horror, and her mouth was dropping open in a twisted scream, her hand still reaching, whether to grab him or Chloe, she didn't know. But before she could, time, as she knows well by now, had other ideas. 

Time got in her way. Changed everything. Changed all. 

When Max goes back to the bathroom, on the day that the world very nearly ends, it's different. She sinks down onto the cold tiles, hidden and out of sight, and her hands go to her hair, to grip hard and to sink her nails into her scalp; to stop herself from screaming, from crying out. She shivers at the sound of the door opening, of Nathan and then Chloe coming in; the familiar voices and the back-and-forth, white-hot argument that she knows inside-out by now. It sends her gut barrelling up her throat. Her eyes fill with stinging tears, as it suddenly turns into an imaginary countdown, ticking away only in her own mind. 

Nathan pushing Chloe against the wall. The fear, mixed with some disbelief, lacing Chloe's voice. Nathan's desperation. Exasperation. The two of them tumbling unknowingly towards the end. Hurtling, really. Chloe's last words, one final shove, Nathan's jerky step backwards...

The gunshot. 

 _Bang_.

The thud of a body hitting the ground.

It's all over. And it's a new beginning. Supposed to be. A do-over, a chance to fix everything that she caused to spiral wildly out of control. Her chance to reign it all back in, like pulling on threadbare strings, pulling reality back into the frame and tying it down. 

Chloe had smiled, big and watery and soulful, as the monstrous tornado had slithered closer and closer to Arcadia Bay. Chloe had told her that she was making the right choice.

Max glances towards the direction of the butterfly, perched elegantly by the window. 

Chloe is dead. The timeline is fixed. Max has saved everyone from a bleak, petrifying fate. 

Everyone except the one that mattered the most.

The tears are still falling, running in rivulets down her face, by the time Principal Wells bursts through the door. When the police arrive, Max is still hiding, and she listens as they pin Nathan down and cuff him. She listens to him being dragged away, choking out half-garbled sobs and pleading shouts, and draws her knees up under her chin. 

It still feels like the end of the world. 

 

* * *

 

 

The funeral is a blur. 

Max has no idea how to speak to Joyce or David, though she still tries, offering the same murmured words of comfort that they must be so sick of hearing. Weak words, words like "time" and "brave" and "at peace", words that offer no real comfort or hope. Joyce hugs her tight, nails biting into her shoulders, and Max is struck by the fact that she's never seen Joyce this way, not even after William. At William's service, she had been so strong, running around organizing with a stiff upper lip, making sure that Chloe was never left on her own.

Today, without Chloe, Joyce can barely even stand. Her chest is heaving with hollow, desolate sobs, and David's arms around her as the funeral party climbs the steep hill in the cemetery are barely enough to keep her upright. Max follows close behind, her head bowed, a lump the size of a gold ball lodged in her throat. 

In this universe, in this timeline, David barely knows her, and this is Joyce's first time to see her since she left for Seattle. The cold reality of this makes Max feel... bizarre. It is the strangest and most unsettling thing in the world, to look at someone and know them so intricately, to know things about them that they have only ever told you in another point in time, to have had countless conversations and seen them at their darkest moments, shared with them the most profound of experiences. Max feels a dull migraine throbbing against her temple whenever she thinks about it too much. It's like the whole world has amnesia. 

Max's vision is swimming as she looks at the coffin. The one person who would understand, the only person that did understand, is gone. The only person that Max wants to talk to about all of this is the person who she can never talk to ever again. 

The service begins as the sun comes out. Eventually, it fades to background buzz. Max hears soft weeping, a distant lawn mower, the well-meaning drone of the priest, but nothing really sticks. Max speaks to Chloe in her head. She apologises again and again, asks questions to which she'll never get an answer, pictures Chloe's hands on her shoulders and her eyes, her comforting words that  _this_ , this cruel and twisted reality, is the right choice. 

She wonders about where Chloe is. She pictures some kind of punk-rock Heaven, a Heaven with warm Belgian waffles just like Joyce used to make, where Chloe traces portraits in the clouds with her finger, where she dances to the radio and can do whatever she likes, whenever she wants. She's there with William, and Rachel Amber, and fuck, even Bongo. 

Max isn't religious, not in the traditional sense. Before today, the glossy iconic images of Heaven and choirs of radiant angels never made much sense to her. But now they do. Now, Max can't bring herself to see Chloe anywhere else but the place in her mind, a place in the sky, a place much better than here. 

She isn't in the coffin. She isn't in the wind, or the blades of lush, springy grass under their feet. Chloe is dancing on a table with a smoke in one hand and a smile on her face. She just  _has_  to be.

Max's stomach somersaults at the sight of a butterfly, tiny and vibrantly blue, fluttering down and landing on Chloe's casket to fan its little wings a bit, perching there in a quiet harmony.

Her eyes sting with fresh tears. The colors of the butterfly's wings seem to flash at her when it moves its wing. Like a wink. 

Max smiles.

_I know, Chloe. I know._

 

* * *

 

 

After the funeral, Max finds herself installed at a table in the Two Whales, squashed between Kate and Alyssa, with Warren and Brooke directly across from her. Everyone else is scattered elsewhere, buying strawberry milkshakes, looking so out of place in their formal attire. The sun streams in through the wide glass windows, illuminating the bustling diner with warm, soft afternoon light. It's too calm, too ordinary. The television on the far corner of the room features a squeaky-clean news anchor discussing financial business, and the hostess covering for Joyce is diligently drying dishes behind the counter. Other customers sit at their tables and read the news, talk loudly on the phone, gaze out the window at the world going by. Another day in Arcadia Bay. Except it's all wrong. Max traces spiral patterns on the table and wonders when this will all stop feeling like a mistake. 

"So weird," Warren says, to no one in particular. He ordered chicken wings, but they sit untouched and dry in front of him. 

"I can't believe she's gone," Alyssa agrees. "I mean, I didn't know her, but she seemed cool."

"Max," Kate nudges her gently, her hand resting lightly on the crook of her arm. "I can't imagine how you felt when.... when you found out that the girl in the bathroom was your friend."

 _Was_ your friend. Used to be _._ Of course. As far as everyone here is concerned, the last time Max saw Chloe was five years ago. The most that anyone of them know about her is from when Chloe used to be a student at Blackwell, for however short that time was. Max sits in silence and listens to them swap brief stories of that time, pranks they saw Chloe pulling, things they heard her say to teachers, how carefree she was. Justin and Trevor knew her best, and after a while, they wander over to the table to join in. They seem shaken, even when Trevor gives the table a well-needed laugh with an energetic re-telling of the time Chloe drilled holes in the bottom of all of Principal Wells's coffee mugs. Max can feel Warren looking at her, probably waiting for her to share a story of her own, some story from when they were kids and things were easier and brighter. But she can't bring herself to speak.

She can't think about eight-year-old Chloe, or ten-year-old Chloe, or pirate Chloe swinging from a tyre swing with a makeshift wooden sword her father had made her. Memories like that, Max wants them to herself, selfish as it may be. It's like if she shares them, she's losing a piece of them. She wants those memories to be only between she and Chloe, the last thread holding them together, the only thing that Max's rewind power can and never could fuck up. She'll keep Chloe inside, whether it be her head, her heart, or the imaginary box of memories she will forever keep locked up, just for her. Just for them. Memories to revisit at times like this, when the walls seem to be closing in and the only thing Max can see, hear, feel, is the sound of that gunshot and Chloe's body falling to the ground.

"Did you hear about Nathan Prescott?" Justin asks. "He's the one that got Mr. Jefferson arrested the other day. After they put Nathan in handcuffs, he confessed everything. Said Jefferson manipulated him."

" _He_  still shot her," Alyssa retorts, frowning. "Not Mr. Jefferson."

"But the Dark Room," Kate says slowly, and automatically, everyone falls silent. Kate looks pale as she adds, "Jefferson liked having power over people, and Nathan was unstable. He was crying out for some kind of guidance. Jefferson used that to take advantage. He used him."

After they found the pictures of Kate in the raid of the Prescott bunker, Kate had had to endure some difficult days in the police station, going over and over what had happened to her. But Blackwell is actually being proactive for once. They are paying for therapy for Kate, letting her church group hold their meetings in one of the classrooms for free, giving her and her family as much support as they can. Everyone is raving about how wonderful they're being, and while Max is thrilled that Kate can finally find some semblance of peace now, she is also kind of bitter, too. It took a former student getting shot in the school bathroom for them to finally step up and take an interest in their student body again. The more cynical part of her honestly feels that it was just Wells trying to generate any good press he could again.

"Guy's a screwball, no matter what," Trevor says. “He shot someone in cold blood and he’s not even going to stand trial! That’s fucked up.”

“Where is he?” Brooke asks.

Trevor rolls his eyes. “They stuck him in some mental hospital outside of town. He had some breakdown after he confessed everything, so he’s not competent to stand trial. They pinned everything on Jefferson.”

“He’ll be competent one day,” Trevor scowls. “And when that day comes, there’ll be no hiding. He’ll be put behind bars where he fucking belongs.”

Max feels her back pocket buzz, and shifts to reach in and pull out her phone. Victoria’s text comes up on screen.

_Can I meet you?_

“Excuse me,” Max stands, a small knot of worry tightening in her gut as she moves past Alyssa. “I think I need some air.”

“Max?” Warren’s on his feet in seconds, ready to follow.

“It’s fine, Warren. I’ll just be a minute.”

The air is still heavy with the scent of Two Whales hamburgers and fries when she’s outside, walking around the side of the diner to the back alley. A damp newspaper lies flattened and stuck to the asphalt at her feet. The front page is a large photograph of Chloe, an oldish one where she still had blonde hair, the kind of picture she’d be livid about appearing in the paper. Max picks it up and folds it over, fingers drifting over Chloe’s face before she sets it down on a nearby crate. She keeps her eyes on it as she texts Chloe back.

_Outside Two Whales, if that’s OK_

Victoria doesn't reply, but Max knows she’s coming. She leans against one of the dumpsters, staring at Chloe’s picture until the image blurs. Chloe is in her head again, ranting comically about the fact Joyce just had to pick _that_ one.

Victoria arrives when the wind has picked up, ruffling the edges of the paper and skirting trash across the ground. She looks uncharacteristically timid, still in her sleek black funeral suit, her usual imposing haughtiness vanished; replaced by a flat, guarded expression. Max tries to smile at her, but Victoria doesn't return it.

“Hey, Victoria.”

“Max.” She takes a step forward, hands awkward at her side.

“Thanks for coming to the funeral,” Max tells her, just to have something to say, to break the odd tension.

Victoria just nods. Her fingers twist together in front of her, and she looks away. Her eyes fall on the newspaper, and Chloe’s beaming smile. Something flickers in her expression that Max doesn't catch.

“I came to… God, I actually don’t know,” Victoria sighs heavily. “I-I just feel so…”

“So?”

“Confused. Hurt? I don’t know. Nathan—” Her voice catches. A pause. “You were in the bathroom when it happened. The news said that you hid when Nathan came in.”

That’s the story that the police assumed, the story she let them believe because it had been the easiest explanation, the story that they then passed on to the press.

Max nods.

Victoria takes another step forward. “Was he--? I need you to tell me—“

“He shot Chloe. He was angry, and things got out of control. I hid behind the stall until Wells came in, and the police were called.”

“He’s sick,” Victoria says. “You don’t get it. He has… _issues_. His family… _he’s not a murderer._ ”

Max knows, of course. She knows everything, or at least more than Victoria could ever imagine that she knows. She realizes, to her surprise, that she probably knows things about the Prescotts and about Nathan that even Victoria doesn't.

“And Mr. Jefferson was arrested, and he’s going to jail,” Victoria says, talking fast now, her face growing more and more flushed. “I came to Blackwell for him, and it turns out that he’s some kind of psychopath? He – Rachel Amber, and Kate.” She stops suddenly, swallows hard. “I took down all the links I could find to Kate’s video. Everything that happened, all of that fucked-up shit. I can’t contribute to it.”

“I'm glad to hear that, Victoria. And Kate’s getting better.”

 “I want to tell her how – how sorry I am. But I don’t think I could ever apologise enough.”

“Kate doesn't expect anything more.” Max rests her eyes on the direction of Two Whales with firm affection. “You’d be surprised. She’s stronger than she looks. I think she’s going to be okay.”

Victoria’s bottom lip is quivering. She looks small and fragile. “They put Nathan in St. Dymphna’s,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “He doesn't belong there.”

It all started with Nathan, and it ended with him, too. Max never really thought about it before, but now she does in vivid images, inhaling sharply as she sees that bathroom again. The harsh red of Nathan’s jacket, the threatening glimmer of the gun, his overwhelming panic. How he’d fallen to the ground and shook Chloe desperately, cursing, hyperventilating, his body racked with shudders and sobs. By the time Wells and David burst through the door, he’d been screaming, beating his fists bloody against the tiles. He didn't even notice Max was there.

Nathan is a link to Chloe. Unbeknownst to him, he and Max shared something that day. Whether he likes it or not, he might be the key to Max somehow being able to find peace.

She needs to understand, has to know. Time can’t play a part anymore. This is her new reality, this is, apparently, the best choice.

She has to see it through.

 

* * *

 

 

St. Dymphna’s is a twenty minute bus ride away from Blackwell. A looming, navy-blue bricked building surrounded by trees, rich shrubbery and a twisting pebble path, it sits perched on top of a hill overlooking the bay. Max is the only one to get off the bus.

She smells freshly-cut grass and bleach the closer she gets to the front doors, the pebbles crunching underneath her feet musically. The stereotypically wrong but nevertheless intrusive images of strait-jackets and savage orderlies that she’d imagined on the bus journey seem ridiculous, now. She bends to pluck a cream-yellow, long-stalked daffodil from the grass, and twirls it between her fingers as she spots the entrance.

Inside the front doors, she finds herself in a warm and pastel-colored reception. It’s not deathly silent, it’s not eerie. It’s just like a regular old hospital.

The receptionist that greets her sports a bright-pink cardigan and matching pink skirt that gives her the unmistakable aura of a personified flamingo, but the smile she sends Max is genuine and calms her nerves a bit.

“Visiting?” she asks.

“Uh, yes. Nathan Prescott?”

Her thin eyebrows cock, clearly surprised, but she says nothing else. She swivels to face what is arguably a very old computer for 2013, and her fingers click over the keys with rapid succession. It only takes a couple seconds. Before she knows it, Max is handed a glossy pass card that identifies her as ‘Guest’. Her fingers are clammy and they slip a little against the laminated paper as she pins it to her sweatshirt.

“He’s in 228,” the receptionist tells her. “Be advised – one of the staff will have to sit in and supervise your visit.”

Max expected as much, but her stomach still clenches at the thought of an orderly supervisor sitting in on what is already going to be one of the most awkward and uncomfortable experiences of her life.

But she came here for Chloe, and to a smaller extent, for herself, and maybe, to an even smaller extent than that, for Victoria, so she smiles politely at the receptionist and turns in the direction of the elevator.

Dog-eared flyers and cheerfully-worded posters advertising for positive thoughts and optimism are pinned up almost like wallpaper around the elevator, and Max regards them all thoughtfully after she hits the button for the second floor. The elevator is playing something soft and melancholy, the sort of thing Chloe might play in her room. Max takes it as a sign.

The doors ping apart on a blindingly-white corridor, a sea of milk-white and pale gray and blue. Max hugs her arms around herself as she steps out. There are other people around, non-patients like her who must be here for visiting hours, going in and out of rooms with balloons, cards, or simply empty-handed. There are more posters on the walls, and some people not much older than her are sat on nearby beanbags, watching a sitcom Max vaguely recognizes. It seems… fine. Definitely not as scary as she’d pictured.

Probably because she’s by herself, an orderly in navy hospital scrubs pushing a cart of half and fully eaten plates of dinner, wanders up to her and nods.

“Who are you looking for?” he asks.

Max says, “Room 228.”

Unlike the receptionist, the orderly looks more than surprised. He almost looks… confused. There’s a strange pause before he scoops up a stack of files and replies, “Prescott. Uh, right. Follow me.”

Max does. The squeak of her shoes against the rubber floors makes her wince, and all too soon, the door to 228 is right there, impossible to ignore, and she has no time to prepare or even figure out how to prepare, because the orderly has his hand on the knob and he’s turning it, and it’s opening, and Max is led into a small room with soft yellow walls and a sweeping view of the bay, a chest of drawers, a night stand, a single bed with drawers underneath, and two chairs by the window, upon one of which Nathan Prescott is sat and staring out.

Max’s stomach barrels up her throat.

The orderly raps on the door with the back of his knuckles. “Nathan, you got your first visitor.” He turns and sends Max this half-apologetic smile. “I gotta stay here for the full half hour, hope you understand. It’s for your safety and his.”

“No, no, I do. It’s okay.” Max watches Nathan as she speaks, petrified that at the sound of her voice, when he realizes who it is, he might freak out and scream at her to leave or something.

But he doesn't. Nathan doesn't even move. The orderly sinks down on the edge of the bed with the files, and starts reading through them, pen in hand. Well, at least he’ll get some work done.

Max moves cautiously, every breath measured and planned. She opts for just standing, but that’s even more awkward, and she doesn't want to do that for thirty minutes. She holds her breath as she sinks down into the chair by the window opposite Nathan, and she waits. Waits for him to say something, to look at her.

He doesn't.

He looks different without his jacket, looks different when he’s somewhere that isn't Blackwell. Younger, almost. He sits in loose, cerulean-blue hospital scrubs tied tight at the waist. His hair is mussed, though that little curl still dips across his forehead. His knuckles show the events of the days previous, flecked with dried blood, cut and bruised. His arms are scratched, like he’s been picking at the skin. His eyes, staring past the window and past this world all together, are glazed over and distant. He almost looks asleep.

Max swallows thickly. “Uh, hi, Nathan. It’s me, Max.” Then, realizing this Nathan hasn't ever actually met her, because there was no dramatic quarrel in the parking lot, she hastily adds, “Um, Max Caulfield. I was in Jeff—Mr. Jefferson’s photography class.”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

Something cold and unpleasant curls in the pit of Max’s stomach. “Nathan?” she asks. “Can you hear me?”

The orderly pipes up, “He can, but he’s been like that since yesterday. Don’t worry about it. He’s probably not going to answer you.”

That’s actually not a bad thing. Max shifts in the chair and crosses her legs, then uncrosses them.

“I don’t know why I'm really here,” she says. “It’s… I guess it’s complicated. It’s been a really messed up couple of days.” _In every timeline_.

Nathan blinks; once, twice, but there is no other indication that he’s listening.

Max leans forward slightly, the chair groaning underneath her. “For what it’s worth,” she says gently, “I hope you get better in here. You’re actually kind of lucky, as stupid as you probably think that sounds. I've seen – uh, people like you, end up a lot worse.”

Nathan’s right hand is twitching. It looks like some kind of tick. His nails are bitten right down and chipped.

“I’d like to come and see you every week,” Max says. “But only if that’s okay. But,” she attempts a smile. “Since you haven’t told me to fuck off yet, I think I'll take that as a good sign.”

Nathan clenches and unclenches his right hand, trying to control the tremor. It spasms.

“I’ll let you get some rest. But I’ll come back. Same time next week.” She glances over her shoulder at the orderly, but he appears engrossed in his paperwork. She turns back to Nathan. “They said you’ll be in here for a long time, but you – you shouldn't see it as a bad thing. You need this. You have to trust me on that. You _need_ to get better.”

The tremor has stopped.

“Everybody used you,” says Max. “So get better, and it’ll be your way of getting back at them.”

She stands up, nods at the orderly, who nods back and shuffles his paper work. There is a small plastic vase of wild-flowers on the windowsill, half-full with water. She drops the daffodil she’s been carrying into the vase, and moves towards the door.

She’s only just reached the doorway when she whirls around, just as the orderly is leaping to his feet, papers scattering everywhere frantically. Max turns her head and looks at the splatter of water and leaves on the opposite wall, and then directly underneath, where the flowers lay in a soggy puddle, half-out of the vase. The head of the daffodil lays limp.

Nathan’s fists are clenched around his knees, his back hunched over and rigid. He doesn't turn around, just stays looking out of the window.

The orderly sighs as he stoops down to clean up the hurtled vase and its contents. Nathan certainly has a powerful throw. The orderly shakes his head at Max in a mixture of disbelief and apology.

“Sorry,” he says, “Don’t take it to heart.”

Max lingers in the doorway, looking at Nathan. Somewhere in her imagined Heaven, Chloe is probably rolling her eyes, and telling her to just go and never come back.

But Max isn’t going to do that. This is supposed to be the new beginning, the best possible choice. She is going to make Chloe proud of her, and make sure that this timeline turns out as good as possible. She wants to prove it to herself, too, that her powers don’t always have to screw everything up, to cause havoc and distress. Max can make _good_ out of this, as messy and desolate as it all may be.

But that’s easier said than done.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still trying to wrap my head around the phenomenal response to the first chapter. I mean, Christ, THANK YOU. You don't know how much it means to me that you guys are enjoying this!! Thank you profoundly for all of your amazing comments & support - hopefully you like this one just as much. If so, let me know! :D

 

Things shouldn't get back to normal. Or, at least, not so jarringly quickly.

Max had pictured painful weeks ahead of them; of a Blackwell closure, maybe even a dormitory closure. Endless days of mourning and investigations and dragged-out assessments of how Chloe Price might have been saved, or how Nathan Prescott could have been stopped; public outcry and speeches by a stone-faced Principal Wells on the front steps of his office, using empty words like "tragedy" and "phenomenal loss", as cameras flashed and reporters poured in from all over the country, filling quiet, old Arcadia Bay with bustle and drama. Maybe Max's parents would come to take her back from Seattle, and she'd leave this town behind once and for all, nothing but her memories and cold notions of 'what might have been', to keep her company in the silence of night. 

None of that happens. 

School resumes, and doesn't stop for anyone. The door to the girls' bathroom is taped over with neon-yellow police tape and, other than that and the heavy, strange atmosphere that seems to follow everyone around, there is no indication that anything even happened at all. The girls start to use the bathroom on the second floor, and people try to forget. After a while, they really do. 

Max is... many things. Devastated. Baffled. Barren. She goes to bed early and doesn't sleep, just turns restlessly throughout the nights that are always too hot and suffocating to even think. She avoids the probing phone calls and texts from her parents and spends long, sun-drenched afternoons up on the bench by the lighthouse, just staring into space, achingly aware of the empty space next to her. Arcadia lies nestled by the bay, and the town carries on, resilient and mundane.

Arcadia is safe. Chloe is not. 

Her mind feels heavy with thousands of 'what ifs' and 'why nots' and she can't escape the intrusive voices that taunt her, and tell her that she's robbed a family of their only daughter, robbed herself of the best friend she ever had, robbed the world of a exhilarating, brilliant, inspirational wild child. 

Chloe could have been somebody. She could have given the world so much, and experienced so much in return.  _Could have. Should have._  Max thinks about the days that are now dead and buried and feels sick. 

Some nights, she lies awake and puffy-eyed in bed and imagines what would have happened if she'd let go of Arcadia Bay instead. Stood back and watched as the town was ravaged, wrecked, shattered; watched as everyone and anyone she ever knew was sacrificed to the merciless, obliterating storm.

But Chloe would have survived. She would have been all right. Sacrificing Arcadia would have been equivalent to sticking up a spiteful finger to time itself, sticking out a tongue to the threads of life. Amongst the ruin, amongst the dead and the destruction, Max would still have her best friend, and maybe there might have been better, brighter things on the horizon. If they went to California like Chloe and Rachel had planned to, if Max had become a photographer and Chloe had, well, done whatever Chloe did and inevitably flourished in a city like Los Angeles... would it have been any better? Would Max be sleeping any better at night if she'd sacrificed the many for the one? Would Chloe blame her or understand?

Three days after Chloe's funeral, Max goes to her house and climbs the stairs to her bedroom, and, for the first time in forever, realizes that Chloe isn't going to be there. She pushes opens the door, and is hit with a gut-wrenching  _lurch_ when she realizes that everything, absolutely everything, is exactly the same, just as Chloe left it. The piles of clothes, her scattered piles of Rachel Amber posters, the skull-shaped ash tray that still holds countless stubbed-out cigarettes and joints. The room still has her smell, her energy. 

Max raises her eyes and looks at the writing on the wall, directly above her bed. Chloe's hard, sprawling handwriting is practically etched into the wall. 

 _Just gotta let go_ , it reads.

Max sinks down onto the end of Chloe's bed, tears stinging her eyes, and apologies for the thousandth time to the Chloe with glimmering white wings in her head.

 

* * *

 

 

"That's the last of it." Joyce folds over the final item from Chloe's closet, her prized black jacket, and rubs her hand over the worn material before she places it in the cardboard box at her feet, marked 'MAX'. 

Max closes the wings of the box over and hesitates with the tape. It's taken three and a half hours, mostly because they had to keep stopping, either to cry or reflect on a memory or tell a story, but finally, all of Chloe's clothes and personal belongings are packed away, almost her entire life packed neatly into just a few cardboard boxes, labelled for different people and places. Max looks around the bare room, so foreign and cold to her now, and has to bite down hard on her bottom lip to stop crying.

"Are you sure you want me to take all of this?" Max asks. There are two large boxes for her to take back to her dorm, the first containing all of Chloe's clothes and accessories from years ago to the present day, stuff she knows she'll never wear but simply take out to stare at and stroke every now and then. The second box is the one she can't even bear to think about. Old birthday cards, toys from their childhood, photographs that seem like they were taken in another world, things that Joyce just put it that Max hasn't even looked at yet, some things she's never seen before. 

"It's just going to gather dust if I leave it here, I--" Joyce breaks off, her hand going to pinch the bridge of her nose. "I don't know what to do with this room. I wanted to leave it as it was, but..."

She looks so different. From the time Max was a little girl, Joyce had always been that mom that just seemed to always know what to do. She was always strong, snarky, a disciplinarian with the biggest, kindest heart. She had treated Max like her own from day one. Max knew she had been foolish to ever think, even for a second, that Joyce might be able to handle this. She looks so small and broken, her hair twisted up into her trademark ponytail but sloppily so. She's barefoot, in pale blue gingham pajama pants and a button-up shirt two sizes too big, swallowing her up. Her eyes are rimmed with red and swollen, and even her voice sounds strange. Choked and distant. 

In the past, Joyce never would have been caught dead in her pajamas or make-up free even early in the morning. Now, it's five thirty in the afternoon and she looks like she's just gotten out of bed. When Max had arrived, all of the curtains and blinds had been drawn, and the house had been cold and silent. Max would have given anything to hear the comforting click of Joyce's heels in the kitchen again, or Chloe's eager stomp up and down the stairs. It's too different, too catastrophic. David is out; Max has no idea where, but his car was gone when she'd arrived and he hasn't been back yet. She wonders if he's coming back at all. 

Max stands up and wraps her arms around Joyce, who pulls her in tighter and begins to sob against her shoulder. It feels wrong. Max was always the one crying on  _her_ shoulder, getting rocked and soothed after she cut her knees up playing in the back yard and Joyce had calmed her down, given her a candy bar and cleaned her up, laying two pink Barbie plasters across her cuts and wiping her tears away. Max feels so young and useless, holding Joyce and having no idea what to do, or say. 

When Joyce pulls away, she sits down on Chloe's bare mattress and picks up the comforter, folded on the floor. She pushes it against her nose and inhales deeply, a whimper falling from her lips.

Max glances towards the closet, and sees one last outfit hanging there. The lump in her throat expands and threatens to choke her.

Joyce follows her gaze, wiping her eyes. "I didn't know what to do with that," she says brokenly. "It's not Chloe's, but that poor girl--"

"I'll take it," Max says firmly. "Don't worry."

"Thank you, Max," says Joyce. "God, you're so  _strong_. You really are a woman now. I can't believe how much you've changed."

Max removes Rachel Amber's clothes from the closet and folds them, her stomach churning as she packs them up in the box with the rest of Chloe's clothes. "I'm not strong at all," she admits.

"Stronger than me," Joyce says, emitting a laugh without any humour. "These past couple days have just been... God, so  _awful._ "

Max sits down on the taped-up box of bedsheets and pillows, hanging her head. "Chloe loved you so much."

"She was really a good girl. She was just, lost. After William passed on, I felt so helpless, just watching her drift away. Her heart was broken. But I-I never expected her to..." The words trail off, tremble, and fall on the ground. Joyce rubs at her eyes roughly, shaking her head like she's stuck in a nightmare. "I should have told her," she sobs. "I thought she'd pull herself together and we'd be a family again. I thought we just needed time. I should have told her how," her breath hitches painfully, "how  _proud_ I was of her, Max."

"She knew, Joyce. She knew."

"She got mixed up in something with that  _Prescott_  boy," She spits out the name with venom. "I don't understand it. And maybe I never will. But that boy took my little girl away, no matter what kind of psycho manipulated him. I hope he  _rots_."

"Did you see him at all? After they arrested him?"

"No, I heard he had some kind of nervous breakdown and was committed." She snorts. "He best count himself lucky. David was ready to do far worse to him than he did to our Chloe." Her hands are shaking when she rubs them over the fabric of the comforter. "Chloe never hurt anyone. Nobody except herself. She didn't deserve this, Max."

Max's heart swells with a black, icy despair that seems to swallow her whole. Everything that she did, every choice she ever made, it's all led to this. To Joyce, sobbing in an empty room and wondering how to survive all of this. The walls seem to close in, and Max feels suffocated. She searches for something around the room to look at and lose herself in, something to soothe her. She sees the camera. Her camera, or, as it is right now, William's camera.

She reaches for it of her own accord, and turns it over and over in her hands. 

Joyce sniffs and says, "She wanted to give that to you, for your birthday last month. She was going to mail it to Seattle." Her hands ball up in the comforter, her face pained. "She had no idea you were even back in Arcadia Bay. I wish you two had gotten to see each other one last time. She would have liked to give that to you herself."

Max doesn't notice that she's crying until the tears fall and splash on the camera. 

"Take it, Max," Joyce continues. "She would have wanted you to have it. And William, too. He always loved you taking pictures."

Max nods, but her throat feels swollen and she can't get the words out. They disappear and evaporate. Joyce gets up and moves back towards the boxes, and stops to cover Max's hand with her own and give it a limp squeeze. 

"I'll give you a ride back to Blackwell. Help me carry all these boxes downstairs."

Max rises to her feet with shaking legs, and she's reaching for Joyce again. Her familiar smell, of perfume and vanilla extract, is simultaneously comforting and upsetting. 

"Joyce," Max says, "I am  _so_  sorry."

"Honey..." Joyce clicks her tongue and rubs her back gently, her voice so kind and warm. "Don't be silly. What could you possibly have to be sorry for?"

Max swallows hard.

The ride back to Blackwell is weighted and quiet, and when Max carries the boxes up to her dorm, she pushes them underneath her desk, the tape still across them, holding them tightly shut. She can't open them. Can't relive it all. 

Not yet.

 

* * *

 

 

Ms. Donnelly is not the replacement photography teacher that Max would have chosen. She is fresh out of college and painfully enthusiastic, but the heaviness left behind by the man who used to occupy the desk still hangs over every lesson, and as a result, Ms. Donnelly is also extremely terrified of interacting with any of the students in her class, full of paranoia and undoubtedly the victim of one of Wells's lectures on what not to do, and what not to talk about. The whole atmosphere of the school has changed. Teachers are nervous in their classrooms and dodge direct communication with their students like a sport.

Even Ms. Grant has grown meek, deeply shaken by the events of last week. She seems to have gotten it into her head that the overzealous surveillance that David had been pushing for would have saved Chloe somehow, and she's now suffering from some kind of guilt over her fervent campaigns to try and stop him. Max is desperate to get through to her and tell her that there was nothing she could have done, nothing that  _anyone_  could have done, for that matter, but she can't. She can't risk giving away too much, or telling people things that she shouldn't know about them. That would be interfering with the timeline again, fucking everything up again, and she can't risk ever having to rewind again. She hasn't used her power since that day in the bathroom, and she's vowed to never do so again. She lives every day of her life now in constant alert, cautiously making sure that nothing she does will give away too much, or end up having to be fixed. 

She can't take that risk again, even though Chloe met her original and intended fate. There is undoubtedly an invisible and very complex spider web of original, intended fates happening all around her, every single day, and Max is not going to touch any of them. She fears that next time, there won't be an Arcadia Bay to save. 

After another photography class with Ms. Donnelly, in which she rambled about tilt-shift techniques and everyone pretended to listen, Max wanders into the school café with Kate in tow. If there's truly one good thing that has come out of this original timeline, it's Kate.

She's better. With the video taken down and the school rocked by what happened to Chloe, Kate has been given time to heal, and she's receiving the support that she needs. Max buys her a hot cup of tea and they take it outside into the pale, early afternoon sunlight, sitting on one of the picnic benches by the front of the school and observing the world go by. 

Kate is drawing again, bright and colorful images that seem to breathe and take on a life of their own. These days, Max finds herself wanting to live in the worlds of Kate's art more than she does want to live in this world. 

They have a free period, campus is quiet, it might be the right time.

Max takes a breath. "Kate?"

"Yes?" She's doodling in the margins of one of her notebooks. 

"I guess I just wanted to let you know that, if you ever need to talk about what happened to you, I'm here. I'll always be here for you."

Kate tilts her head, looking at her quizzically. "We talked about the video, Max. I'm getting over it."

Max hesitates, her hand curling around her tea. "I'm... not talking about the video."

Kate freezes, her pen stilling against the page.

"You don't have to talk about anything you don't want to," Max adds hastily, flushing, "But what happened to you was messed up and horrible, and I need you to know that you aren't alone. You survived, Kate."

Kate is looking down, her delicate frame rigid. "Max, if you don't mind, I'd rather not talk about it."

"Kate--"

"It's fine. I'm getting help. I see my therapist three times a week, and my parents are coming to visit next week."

Max falls quiet. Kate glances at her, and her face, locked and bolted before, softens.

"I'm sorry. I know you're only trying to help, but I don't want to talk about that yet. I'm still trying to figure out what happened myself."

Max nods. "Of course. Take all the time you need. And I'm here for you, if you ever want to talk."

Kate smiles. "You're a good friend, Max. And so brave. I don't know how you're handling everything so well, when you and Chloe were so close."

On the contrary, Max is in fact handling everything pretty tragically. She has bags under her eyes from nights she doesn't sleep and food doesn't taste like it used to, and any time she sees her camera now, she flinches. Her apparent "handling" is not a result of her being brave, or strong, like everyone seems to think, but simply due to the fact she has lost Chloe so many times, she's in a way resigned herself to this reality. Her composure is not actually composure, but actually, a renouncement, of everything she has come to know. She's constantly expecting the worst now, and she probably always will be. She's given in to this. This is her fate, this is her destiny. And maybe it's her punishment, for fucking everything up in the first place.

Of course, she doesn't tell Kate any of this, or even imply it. Instead, she reaches across the table and squeezes Kate's hand, smiling. 

"I have great friends," she says. "That's how I'm handling it."

 

* * *

 

 

The receptionist at St. Dymphna's arches thinly pencilled eyebrows when she looks up and spots Max, strolling through the door with a nervous smile. Max doesn't blame her. Honestly,  _she's_ surprised that she came back this week. She has a knot of swirling anxiety in the pit of her stomach, but she is trying her best to ignore it. 

She gives the receptionist an awkward little wave. "Hi," she says.

"Back again." The receptionist leans across her desk and scoops up one of the visitor's passes, handing it over. "It's nice to see."

Max shrugs, offering another smile. Trying her luck, she hesitates for a second before leaning in and asking, "Is it true that I was his first visitor?"

Something passes over the woman's face and she sits back in her seat, pressing her lips together. "His _only_ visitor, sweetheart. So far, anyway."

Max's stomach sinks. "Seriously?"

"I assume you know about his family." It's not a question. 

"Yeah, I do, but--" Max stops and glances at the doors, like she can see Nathan beyond them. "It's been two weeks."

"It's not so unusual, I'm afraid. A lot of families don't know how to deal with a loved one being committed, especially after, well, what happened." 

Max wonders if the Prescotts are intentionally distancing themselves from Nathan in some attempt to make themselves look good, like they had nothing to do with how he ended up. It makes her angry. She's surprised by the anger, how it rises and boils inside her chest. The receptionist must notice it flash behind her eyes, because she sends Max a kind smile.

"It's nice to see that someone cares about him," she says. 

Max doesn't know how to answer this, so she doesn't, just nods and pins the pass to her sweatshirt like always. She says goodbye to the woman and follows the now familiar path to the elevator, hitting the second floor button and feeling her stomach dip with the elevator as it groans and jerks into ascent. The climb seems to take longer, this time. 

The doors ping open on the ward. A couple of family members are milling around with patients, and they regard Max thoughtfully as she heads past the television area and heads down the wide corridor to 228. She pauses at the door, wondering if she should get an orderly or nurse. She doubts just going into Nathan's room, visiting hours or not, would be welcomed. 

Almost on cue, a young, harried-looking woman in scrubs comes out of the adjacent room, scribbling furiously on a clipboard and pushing strands of long, raven hair out of her eyes. She stops when she sees Max. 

"Hey there. Are you lost?" she asks her.

"No, uh, I'm sorry, I'm visiting Nathan Prescott, but I think I'm supposed to have a supervisor."

There's a pause, a strange one. It's too long to be normal and Max feels a wave of awkward heat wash over her. 

"Nathan Prescott?" The nurse asks, finally. 

"Uh, yes." Max takes out her phone and glances at the bright 4.03 on the lock screen. "...It _is_ visting hour, isn't it?"

"Yes, sorry, of course it is." The nurse smiles sincerely, and Max feels calmer. She slips her pen into the pocket of her scrubs. "You must be Nathan's girlfriend, right?"

Max's eyes widen. "Uh, _no_. I'm -- no."

"Oh, really? Sorry. Steve -- he supervised you guys last week, he said -- I mean, I guess he just presumed...?"

"No," Max says, shaking her head and feeling heat prickle against her neck. "No, I just go -- uh, went, to Blackwell with him."

"Well, in any case, it's nice to see you come back." To Max's surprise, the nurse holds out her hand. "My name's Nell, by the way. I run one of the community groups that the patients attend every day."

"Max," she replies, taking her hand. "Nathan goes to community group?" She can't imagine it.

Nell's answering smirk tells her all that she needs to know. "Um, no. I'm trying to get him to come to at least _one_ session, but he's been fairly uncooperative so far. " She clicks her tongue. "It doesn't matter. He'll come around. He's not the worst that I've seen."

Max, as bad as it makes her feel, doesn't quite believe that. She glances over her shoulder at the door. "So, is he in there or...?"

Nell nods. "Rarely comes out. But like I said, he'll come around. All he needs is time."

Max resists the urge to roll her eyes. Meaningless phrases like that have become her worst enemy lately. "Is he... doing okay?" she asks.

Neil bites her lip, falling quiet, and Max pretty much understands. 

"I don't want to piss him off or anything," Max says, "I can go."

Nell moves past her, and beckons her to follow. "You never know, he might be happy to see you. After you."

Max wanders after her, suppressing a snort. Nathan - happy to see her? Nerves bubble up in her chest. She wonders if there is anything in Nathan's room that he can hurl at her head again. 

The room has changed a little. He's been given another pillow, and he hasn't made the bed. The sheets and pillows look like the ultra-thin kind they give away on airplanes. Two books that Max vaguely recognizes sit on the end of it, dog-eared and well-thumbed through. A bottle of water, half-full, sits on the floor by the bed. 

Nathan is sitting in the same chair, thought it's turned slightly towards the door. Max wouldn't be surprised to learn that he never moved between last week and this one. 

He doesn't look up when they come in. He has the same glazed-over expression that convinces Max that he wouldn't even notice if you drove a car through the wall. Nell shuts the door and slides down it to sit, her clipboard on her knees. She starts going through her paperwork and gives Max a reassuring smile. 

Max moves slowly towards the empty chair across from Nathan, twisting her hands together. He's tired-looking and dejected, his posture slouched. 

Max tries a smile but he doesn't even see it.

On the small table separating them sits a paper plate of half-eaten lunch, on top of a cracked red cafeteria tray. Max leans forward to inspect it, unable to stop wrinkling her nose. The sandwich, turkey and cheese, looks limp and bland, and the packet of mayo sits untouched next to it. He's eaten the apple, but ignored the musty-looking fruit cup. Hospital food at its very worst. 

"That can't be good," Max remarks.

Nathan doesn't react.

"I'm allowed to bring you food. I'll bring you something yummy next week. Would that be okay?"

Nothing.

"How are you today?"

When she gets, unsurprisingly, no answer, she turns and looks at Nell. The nurse is buried in work, and doesn't appear to be listening. Max moves from side to side, trying to hook Nathan's gaze. It doesn't move from his shoes. 

And then, just because she's running out of ideas and he never answers her anyway, Max says, "We have a new photography teacher. She's pretty terrible. She's not even worth Victoria trying to suck up to her." 

A slow blink. Max ponders if that means progress. 

She rolls with it. "I bet Victoria will come and see you soon," she tells him softly. "She really wants to. And she's always thinking about you. It's just, well, hard for her, you know? That's just another reason why you need to get better. So that Victoria can come and see you, and you can hang out again."

She turns around and spots the books. She gets up and goes over to get them. She sets them on the table and examines the covers.

Fantasy horror, by the sound of the blurbs. The titles are familiar, all written by someone called T.C. Baker, and she pauses to recollect the name. 

She runs her fingers over the worn lettering, and it hits her.

"Oh, of course." She smiles. "Warren is _obsessed_ with this series." She looks at Nathan. "Do you know Warren? He went to school with us, too. He's my friend. _And_  a huge nerd. He loves stuff like this." 

Silence, stillness. Max watches the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. 

"Excuse me," she calls to Nell. "Do you know if the library here has the rest of this series?"

Nell doesn't even have to think before she shakes her head. "Uh-uh. I'm certain. Those are our most popular books, but management can't spring from the budget to buy the rest. There's like, what, twelve of those books?"

Max nods. "My friend Warren has them all." Collectors edition, too. She brings the books back over to Nathan's bed and when she sits back down across from him, she sets her hand down on the table. "Nathan, I'm going to ask my friend for the next book in the series, and when I come next week I'll loan it to you, okay?"

The twenty minutes go by slowly, but it's never too uncomfortable. Max is still trying to adjust to sitting across from him and speaking to him in a normal, soft tone of voice, and not expecting some sort of hostile, spiteful rebuttal, so she keeps things light. She tells him about the Bigfoots versus Razorbacks game, even though she's absolutely positive neither one of them could give a shit, and she rambles about Warren's love of fantasy and science fiction for probably longer than she should, but Nathan never stops her or looks annoyed, so she figures that it's okay. She tells him about school, about how lost she is in Science, about how bored and restless she always seems to be in English. And then she tells him about her new camera, and how much she wants to be a photographer someday.

Nathan listens, or doesn't listen, she's not quite sure. Either way, when Nell eventually stands up and says, "Time's up, guys," Max is surprised by the mild wave of disappointment that washes over her. 

"I'll see you next week, okay? Be good until then." 

Nathan looks at her. 

His eyes clap onto her face, with such a blazing intensity that Max is caught off guard. His expression is perplexing. It is a whole swirl of things, and then totally blank. But he's looking at her, and he doesn't look angry, or irritated, or upset. He's just... looking at her, his face clear of any and all emotion. Max leaves her hand on the table for a second before she moves away. His eyes follow her, all the way to the door.

She turns and smiles at him weakly from the doorway before she leaves. It only lasts half a second, but she's sure that she saw him nod.

 

* * *

 

 

When she's back on the bus, trundling down the road towards Arcadia town, and then towards Blackwell, Max draws her knees up on the seat and gets out her cell phone. She brings up Warren's contact and types out a message.

 

_Do you still have those T.C. Baker books??_

 

She gets a reply just a minute later. Same old Warren. 

 

_hell yeah!! about time you got into the awesome world of baker_

 

_Can I borrow Book 3?_

 

_you're already two books in!? AND DIDN'T TELL ME?! Max, Max, Max. of course you can, I'll come by your dorm later!_

 

She puts her phone away, settling back against the seat. Through the window, she watches St. Dymphna's fade from view, illuminated in the rich, golden light of the sunset. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so overwhelmed by the response to this and I just want to say THANK YOU so much for the comments, kudos and all that wonderful stuff. It's so fun and interesting writing this, so knowing that so many of you beauties are enjoying it means the world to me. Thank you!!! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one, do let me know. (Sidenote: I adore writing Warren). Any mistakes are my fault.
> 
> If I don't see you until after then, the happiest of Halloweens! :'D <3

October chugs forward into its last days, bringing darker evenings and frigid, foggy mornings that seem to stretch on and on, a canvas of gray and brown as the Autumn leaves begin to fall. Max realizes, as the days drag by, that she feels as though she's lived a thousand Octobers, over and over again, stuck in a loop and being laughed at by the universe. November is going to be so different. Cold, and lonely. Foreign and unexplored. Once she leaves October, she's really leaving Chloe behind. 

On a night where rain hammers like bullets against her window, Max bolts awake from a twisted-black nightmare of a bright, white room in a bunker underneath a barn and contemplates, seriously for the first time since the end began, using her powers to go back. 

There's other photos she could use. Countless, really, and not just from the past few weeks. The pictures from their childhood that Joyce put in one of the boxes to give to Max, she could just pick one, from any point in time, and rewind to better days. It's been almost three weeks without Chloe, three weeks without her snark and her fun unpredictability and the comfort in her eyes that, even in the worst moments, made Max feel as though everything was going to be okay.

She could go right back. She could let the tornado come again, she could do it all over again and pick Chloe, this time. Then, maybe November wouldn't scare her so much.

But she isn't going to do that, of course. She made her choice. According to Chloe, the right one. Apparently. 

Max doesn't understand yet how her best friend dead in the ground equals the best choice. How her mother and stepfather losing their world is the best kind of closure. 

Sweat plasters her t-shirt tight to her skin as she climbs out of bed, her skin prickling with a cold-anxiety. The dorms are silent, and a squinted glance at her phone confirms that it's four in the morning.  _Jesus._  Max picks up the bottle of water on her nightstand and takes a long drink, rubbing her sore eyes. She'd finally managed to fall asleep, and naturally, had a nightmare. She jumps as Jefferson's face rears up before her in the dark, and she's grabbing the bedsheets with white knuckles and biting back a scream. 

"Relax, girl," she whispers to herself, because the room is too quiet, too still. "It's not real. It's over. You're okay." 

A sliver of moonlight, the only glow of comfort in her room, streams through a chink in the curtains. Max moves towards it, and drops into the chair at her desk, opening the lid of her laptop and staring at the screen with blurred eyes. She brings up the tab she'd been reading just before bed, the Oregon state news, most likely the contributor to her nightmare.

_Disgraced Mark Jefferson Receives Trial Date_

It's a few months away, and until then, he's going to be rotting in a prison cell. Justice for Joyce and David, for Rachel Amber, for Kate and all of the other girls who fell into his hell, justice for all of them is months away. But at least it's coming. At least they can rest easier knowing he's behind bars, left alone with the contorted, malevolent hell of his own mind. 

Max shuts the laptop with a harsh snap, a slap to the face she hopes Jefferson feels, jerking awake in his own stiff prison cot wherever he is. The boxes of Chloe's stuff sit unopened and ignored under her desk. She pulls the chair over to the window and takes the fan off the window sill so she can open the window. She shivers when the wind and rain hits her, sharp and bitingly-cold. But it's fresh, too, and calming to listen to. It reminds her that she's still alive, that November is coming, and that she's made it this far. 

Her overlook of campus is dark and saturated and empty. The moon winks a goodbye as it slides behind a heavy raincloud, and her room is suddenly dark again. 

She shouldn't, but she imagines Chloe not in her Heaven, but in the ground, in that casket as the rain pounds the earth of the cemetery. 

Max runs her finger through the puddles forming on the window sill, and squeezes her eyes shut.

Jefferson gets a bed, but Chloe gets a casket.

 

* * *

 

 Joyce's replacement at the Two Whales is harried and overworked, and sends Max's roast-turkey sandwich skidding across the table before she spins on her heel and practically vaults over the counter, returning to the dozens of orders piled up against the window.

Max misses Joyce. 

"Do you want some of my fries?" Warren asks, for what has to be the thousandth time. 

"No thanks. I'm not really that hungry, anyway."

Warren shifts awkwardly in his seat, like he had been considering reaching across the table to take her hand but reconsidered at the last minute. 

"Still down?"

Max shrugs. "I'm sorry, Warren. I know I've not exactly been the coolest person ever to hang out with, lately."

"Max, you're crazy. I love hanging out with you." The toe of his shoe nudges her under the table. "You're gonna be okay, you know."

Her answering smile is sad. "I hope so."

He takes a bite of a chicken tender and, still with it garbled in his mouth, says, "By the way, I brought those books you wanted."

He turns and unzips his backpack, and Max listens to several clunky-sounding items hitting off each other as he digs around. She smiles fondly; Warren is known for often carrying the entire Chemistry room around with him. 

The books he passes her across the table have obviously been read and reread again, beloved hardbacks with the spines crinkled and the ink smudged by fingertips. Max opens the inside page and smiles. Warren always writes his name in his neat, spidery handwriting on every book he owns, and it's no different this time. 

"Gotta say, I'm very impressed that you're finally joining the Baker train, I thought I'd have to revoke your geek card, after all." Warren says, grinning toothily. "I know you asked for Book 3, but Book 4 is so awesome that you'll just  _have_ to start it right away."

"Thanks, Warren." She slips them into her own bag. "I'm not sure when I can get them back to you, though."

"Don't worry about it. You can keep 'em for as long as you want. Baker  _deserves_  to be reread over and over." He takes a long drain of his milkshake, his eyes brimming with a fond curiosity. "So, what did you think of the first two?"

 _Shit._ "Uh, the first two...?" She says, just to stall.

"The first two in the series, of course! Didn't the professor in the first one just blow your fucking mind?" 

"Oh! Uh, yeah." Awkward laugh. "Crazy."

"And, oh man, don't even get me started on that creepy old shack in the woods. No spoilers, but you are gonna  _die_ when you find out what Dr. Cassandra is doing up there--"

"No spoilers!" Max interrupts, relief filling her, seeing it as a way out of this. "I'm going to erect a strict No Baker Talk for the foreseeable future."

Warren rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "I get it, as disappointed as it makes me. I wish I was reading Baker as a newbie again. Godspeed, Max Caulfield."

Max surveys the diner, her chin propped on her hands. It's totally the same, and then, different, in small ways. Without Joyce, there's a lack of... something, some kind of energy that must have been so palpable before that Max feels its absence so harshly now. The truckers are still hunched over at the counter, Blackwell students are still dotted sleepily around, and the jukebox is playing the same old songs. Max remembers the cockroach, and can't stop the smile that comes to her face. 

They had been sitting in this very booth, she and Chloe, when she'd first showed Chloe her powers. The look on Chloe's face, how wide her eyes had been, but not because she'd thought Max was nuts or high or anything at all like that. She'd been...  _excited_. It was like they were kids again, playing pretend superheros and leaping around Chloe's backyard. Only, this time, it wasn't pretend, and Max's powers were real, and Chloe was still right there with her. 

Max reaches for the napkin holder, pulling out a bunch.

Warren watches as she carefully wraps up her sandwich. 

"Not hungry?" he says.

"Nah. I'll keep it for later. The cafeteria food recently has  _not_ been the most awesome."

"Speaking of awesome," Warren chirps, sitting up suddenly, "I think I have something to cheer you up."

"What?"

"Since we couldn't go ape, I figured you might want a rain check!"

Max tilts her head. "They're showing the  _Planet of the Apes_ marathon again?"

"Nope, but it is another drive-in." He reaches cheerily into his bag again and slides a colorful flyer across the table. "In honour of Halloween." 

Max picks it up. "Rocky Horror?"

"I'm trying to think of a good pun equal to the mind-boggling awesomeness that was 'go ape', but I'm blanking." He grins widely. "So? Are you up for it?"

She passes it back, her lips twitching. "I'm not sure. It would be really cool, but..."

"Everyone dresses up in costumes and stuff," Warren adds, his eyes glittering, "and I  _know_ you love Rocky Horror. I even put it on my flash drive for you." He nudges her under the table again. "Come on, I thought you loved the Time Warp!"

Max thinks the universe is fucking with her again. Suddenly, the thought of any time warp or anything time-related at all, churns her stomach. 

She tries to give Warren the brightest smile she can muster, and says, "I promise I'll let you know, okay?"

Warren's "Okay," sounds dejected, but fortunately he says nothing more and they settle into relaxed conversation again, the rain beginning to fall once more.

Warren has partnered with Brooke for some science competition that Ms. Grant is running. The winners get a trip to the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry, their project displayed in the museum itself, three hundred bucks each and their names in the Blackwell trophy cabinet. Max likes listening to him ramble about their project, something about fuel cells and aerodynamics that flies right over her head, and time drifts peacefully by. Warren's voice is strangely soothing, and it feels good to just be with a friend again, and be able to turn off, and not have to constantly watch what she says and thinks and looks like. 

Max takes out William's -  _her_ \-- camera. It's solid and comforting in her hands.

Warren beams. Being friends with Max for this long has taught him to immediately pose whenever she brings out a camera. His smile is sunny and upbeat, and he gives the camera a thumbs-up when she aims it at him. 

When the picture comes out, she shakes it as usual. Warren chuckles.

"Are you  _ever_  going to get in a pic, Miss Photographer?"

She lifts one shoulder, putting her camera away. "I'm better behind the lens." She hands the picture over to him.

He stares at it for a second, waggling his eyebrows. "You sure you don't want to keep it? I'm pretty handsome in this one."

Max rolls her eyes. "No, it's for you. It's a memory."

"A memory? What, this?" He looks around with a comical expression. "I thought memories were supposed to be stuff you always wanted to remember."

"Right. We're having a great lunch, and hanging out, we're doing okay, and it's almost November. This is a memory." 

"Whatever you say." Warren smiles at the picture and puts it away. "I guess we better try and make better memories, though. For a more exciting photography collection." 

Max imagines Chloe next to him. She wishes they had taken more photos of times like this, just hanging out and being together, being young and happy and watching the world go by. It's little things like that that Max misses the most.

She's not going to make that mistake in this new beginning. She wants to start taking photos again. And she'll capture everything, even the little things.

Max shakes her head. "Nah," she says. "I've had enough excitement. This is enough for me."

 

* * *

 

Her mom calls. And calls and calls. After countless voice mails and a particularly hysterical e-mail, Max figures she should probably call her back. 

She lies on her bed at eight o'clock in the evening, listening to the distant beat of Dana's music from down the hall and various voices drifting up and down the corridor outside, and gets out her phone. Her mom gets home at six every single day like clockwork, and by now, she's had dinner and is probably doing one of her intricate crotchets in the living room, while her dad has his feet up on the Ottoman with a cup of coffee and an action movie on the TV. 

They feel so far away, now more than ever. They've always been mundane, probably painfully so, but lately Max has found herself missing them and their profound normal-ness until she aches. They'd have about three heart attacks a piece if they ever found out what had really happened, and the depth to which their daughter had been involved. But still, Max craves the haughty furnishings and her dad's plaid shirts and her mother's syrupy flapjacks. 

Her mom answers on the third ring, and her voice tugs at something in Max's chest. 

"Maxine! Thank God, I was just about to call you again--"

"Relax, Mom. And it's Max, ne--"

"--Never Maxine, of course. Sorry, honey, I was just surprised. I thought your father and I would have to drive out there for you to answer us."

Max presses her cheek into the pillow they had sewn when she was a kid. It smells like home, and she shuts her eyes. 

There's a beat of silence, and her mother's back comes back over the line laced with concern.

"Max? How are you?"

"I'm... okay. Really. Just trying to get back to normal."

"Do you want to come home? You can, you know. I don't care if you want to come home in the middle of the night, you call us and we'll come and get you straight away."

Max sighs. "No, it's fine. I want to stay. We got a new photography teacher, and I have my friends here."

"Chloe was killed in that bathroom," Her mom says, ignoring her. "It can't be safe. Even with those two psychopaths locked up, we're still worried something could happen. Students waving guns around,  _teachers_  with underground bunkers -- are you  _sure_ you don't want to come home? There's plenty of other art schools, Max, ones closer to home."

Max wants to say,  _But Chloe is here_ , but the words don't come. Instead, she stares up at the fairy lights draped above her bed and says, "Seriously, everything is fine. We're all just... trying to move on." 

A burst of static blows in her ear as her mother sighs. 

"I trust you, honey. If you think you should stay, then we're not going to pull you out of there. But you  _will_ call if you do ever want to leave, won't you?"

"I will."

"Even if it's just for the weekend--"

"Mom," Max smiles, her chest tightening. "You're doing it again."

"Right. Sorry. You told me about the... smothering thing."

"It's fine in small doses," Max chuckles. "I miss you guys. I'm sorry for being so distant."

"That's okay. You lost someone very close to you. I wish you two could have seen each other one last time before -- before--"

Max swallows. "Yeah."

"God, I remember when you two used to have sleepovers at our old house. She's --  _was_  a wonderful girl. Poor, poor Chloe. She deserved a long and happy life." The pause is reflective. "Sad, isn't it, Max? You never know what fate has planned out for you."

After they hang up, Max lies on her bed and stares into space until her head starts to feel heavy and full. The boxes under her desk call to her into Chloe's voice, and she feels suffocated. She grabs her shower supplies off the shelf and heads out into the hall, hoping that a hot shower is what she needs to fall asleep tonight and, hopefully, maybe, stay asleep for longer than an hour, without some terrible nightmare shaking her awake. 

She almost bumps into someone outside her room. She looks up and the surprise coats her face before she can stop it.

"Victoria," she breathes, "Hi."

She's make-up less and her posture is slouched, any and all of her bossy arrogance drained out of her. She's wearing a baggy sweatshirt, the kind of thing Max would wear on her very worst day, the kind of sweatshirt that she didn't even think Victoria would look at it in a store, let alone  _own_. Her pajama pants are stained with old coffee and her face is unsmiling and pale. 

She rarely comes to class these days, and spends long hours in her room by herself or with Taylor and Courtney. Max can sometimes hear them trying to cheer her up. 

She understands, quietly so, and she gives Victoria her space. She knows what it's like to lose a best friend, after all. 

"Hey, Max." She sounds utterly broken. 

Max waits for her to say something, anything. She doesn't mind being the brunt of Victoria's insults or remarks if it's the only way she can release some of her sadness. But nothing comes. Just an awkward, weighty silence that makes Max wish she'd stayed in her room. Then, Victoria just brushes past her, heading back to her room. 

Max watches the door shut, her stomach sinking.

She's alone in the hallway. 

 

* * *

 

The receptionist is on the phone and yawning when Max comes in, damp from the torrential rain outside. The woman holds up a finger and leans the phone against her shoulder as she searches for one of the visitor's passes. Max glances around as she waits. It's warm, and decorated for Halloween. Black-and-orange bunting is draped along the reception desk, and someone has stuck dozens of plastic bats, spiders and skeletons up on the walls. A pumpkin, carved with a sanguine grin rather than anything spooky, sits on the coffee table by the seats, a lit candle flickering inside. 

The receptionist smiles as she hands over the pass, and when Max tries to go, she flags her back down and hands her a ghost-shaped sugar cookie from a cookie display on the desk. Max hesitates, looking down at the cookie, and fortunately the woman understands. Her smile is kind as she hands Max a second cookie. 

Max thanks her, and rides the elevator up to the second floor. She taps her foot against the rubber floor to get some of her energy out. She feels nervous, but not as nervous as the first time. 

There are more Halloween decorations hanging up on the second floor ward, though it's all mainly bunting. There's a beautiful color contrast between all of the orange, black and enamel white, but she keeps her camera in her bag, not wanting to get in trouble. The sky outside the windows is dark and stormy and heavy with rain. There's an animated movie on the TV, and many of the patients are gathered around it. The ward seems busy, today. 

"Max!"

She jumps, not used to hearing her name get called in this area. 

She spins around and spots the nurse, Nell, sitting at a table in the corner of the far side of the room with another stack of paperwork in front of her. She lifts a hand, beckoning her over, and as Max moves closer she sees why. To her astonishment, Nathan is sitting on the other side of the table. There's a massive jigsaw in front of him and a cup of tea, half-full. 

"Hey," Max says, sounding as startled as she feels. "Sorry, I... guess I thought he'd be in his room."

Nell's smile is enthusiastic. "Not today. Finally came out for some fresh air."

If Chloe were here, she'd make a joke about the so-called fresh air and the actual stench of cleaning chemicals stinging Max's nose. Max pulls out the chair at the other side of the table, a strange apprehension bubbling up inside of her. She had grown used to the quietness of Nathan's room. Out here, in a new environment, nosier and more bustling, she's caught off guard by her unease. 

He looks exhausted, with purplish half-moons smudging the skin underneath his eyes, shoulders heavy and rounded. He's in the same old hospital scrubs, only this time, he's wearing a scruffy old gray sweatshirt. It's faded and old, stitched on the chest with the St. Dymphna's logo. He's lost weight, and it's obvious by how the sweatshirt seems to swallow him whole, the sleeves too long for his arms. He keeps pushing them up and then pulling them back down. His right hand still shakes with a tremor, though it's slight. 

Max smiles weakly at him, but he's not looking. He's looking at the jigsaw puzzle. It's half-assembled, and seems to be some kind of panoramic picture of a towering stone castle surrounded by breathtaking mountain scenery. 

Sitting with Nathan Prescott as he does a jigsaw puzzle has to be one of the most surreal experiences of Max's life. Chloe is cackling in her head.

"Can I help?" Max asks awkwardly. She gets no answer, and honestly didn't expect one, but he doesn't give her any indication that he doesn't want her to. She picks up the piece closest to her, and finds where it fits in, slotting it neatly into place. 

Nathan's still not talking and every movement is sluggish and controlled, but he is moving. Max is oddly mesmerized by his hands, and seeing them move over the puzzle. It makes her hopeful. It's a good sign.

His hand shakes hard at one point and one of the pieces he's holding slips out of his grip and falls. Max picks it up and holds it out to him, holding her breath. Nathan hesitates, but finally, he takes it off her and slides it into place. His fingers are dry and cold. 

"How are you?" Max asks him. 

No answer. 

Nathan picks up a particular piece and gives it over to her after a moment. He taps a portion of the jigsaw that's on her side, and Max puts it in. 

It's not as awkward as she expected. It's actually kind of nice. The jigsaw allows her to tune out and simultaneously gives her something to focus on. She should pick up a couple for the nights she can't sleep at all.

After a few minutes of peaceful silence, Max reaches for her bag.

"Oh! I almost forgot."

Nathan sits back and waits. He really does.

When she turns back, holding the two books and a large cellophane bag, Nathan's looking at her. 

She tries to look back, but his blue eyes are so stormy, she can only handle it for a few seconds at a time.

She passes him the two books, smiling, and then, "A turkey sandwich and some fresh apple pie, straight from the Two Whales."

He takes them from her and puts them next to him on the table. He runs his hand over the covers.

Nell reaches for the books, an apologetic smile on her face. "Mind if I search these? Sorry, hospital policy."

"Oh, no problem." 

She swears she sees Nathan smirk, but it's gone when she looks back, his face blank again. 

"Clean." Nell slides them back across the table, and, to Nathan, says, "Keep those in your room, Nathan. Anyone gets their hands on them around here, you might not get 'em back."

"You can keep them for as long as you want," Max adds. "And let me know if you want anything else." 

They fall into a comfortable silence again. Nathan's hands are scratched and peppered with old-looking grazes, though his knuckles have healed up nicely. Max can't look away from his right hand. It quivers a third time, and he flexes and unflexes it to relax it. Max wonders whether it's a side effect of his medications. 

She flushes, not from the heat, when he catches her looking and immediately brings his hand under the table and sits on it.

Max is used to talking mostly to herself by now, so she passes the time while they work by telling him about school again, and what she did in photography that morning, and before she knows it, she's fallen into talking about Seattle and her old life there, her parents and her old friends and the pictures she used to take from the Space Needle. Nathan's body language is still slack and vacant, but Max can't help but feel like he's concentrating on what she's saying this time. It makes her talk more, and with an uncharacteristic ease. She's never spoken so much to someone who in return has spoken nothing at all. It's usually the other way around.

The puzzle is almost complete by the time Nell speaks again. 

"Nathan got a call from his father this morning," she says.

Something in the air changes. Nell apparently doesn't notice, but Max does.

Nathan goes utterly rigid. 

Panic rises. 

"Uh, y-you can call the patients here?" she says, just for something to say, to break the tension that Nell's oblivious to. 

"Oh, sure. During any free time hours they have, any day of the week," Nell replies. When she smiles at Nathan, it's nothing but friendly. "Are you looking forward to your parents coming out to visit, Nathan?"

Nathan is still for one, infinitely long second, and then, everything happens fast and all at once. 

Max jumps back as Nathan stands and brings the table with him. The jigsaw, Nell's paperwork, and the books and bag of food go flying as he flips the table over and kicks violently at his chair, sending it flying across the room. The jigsaw lies at Max's feet, smashed into all its tiny pieces again.

Nathan's panting where he stands, hands balled up into fists, his eyes alert and darting with - not anger, but, fear? Max reaches out for him, her fingers trembling, to close around his shoulder and calm him down, but before she can, three orderlies come flying out of no where and pin him against the wall.

The other patients barely bat an eyelid, just turn back to their show.

Max is  _horrified._

Nathan thrashes at first, and then goes down onto the floor easily, hands behind his back. He's picked up by the orderlies and carried away, not towards his room, but back out into the corridor of the elevator. 

Max is shaking.

"W-What the  _fuck_ ," she hisses. Nell is standing next to her, her face sad. "Where -- where are they taking him?"

Nell sighs. "The quiet room."

"The -- the what?"

"The quiet room. It's where the patients go when they get agitated. It's for their own safety. Are you all right? You're pale as milk." Her hand goes to Max's shoulder. "Listen, he's going to be okay. It's not his first time in the quiet room."

Max gets a vivid flash of a solitary padded cell and a long, terrifying needle and feels sick. Her heart is pounding so hard she thinks her ribs will crack.

"Max," The kindess in Nell's voice stings. "It's okay." 

"I -- his parents are--"

"It's clearly a touchy subject." Nell rubs the back of her neck, wincing. "Guess I learned my lesson."

Max leans down and scoops up the books and the food. She can't look away from the busted jigsaw.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, in any case," Nell tells her. "Do you want to go and put that stuff in his room for when he gets back? He should be out of the quiet room in an hour or two."

"Um, okay." 

Being in Nathan's room without him is weird and foreign, and Max thinks that she's finally starting to realize the gravity of this situation. Of Nathan's situation. This is  _real_. Watching him get carried away like that,  _jesus_ \-- he's in here because of her. This is his reality, his butterfly effect. 

He has to get out of here. He needs to get better. 

Max leaves the food on the table, and the books on his pillow. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in the middle of some intense college essays - *incoherent screaming* - but I'm really hopeful to still crank these chapters out every few days, to keep the rhythm I have going. THANK YOU for the amazing response to this - the love it's been shown literally has me sitting at my laptop with my jaw hanging open, so thank you so much. I hope you enjoyed this one! I'll see you hopefully very soon! :D
> 
> HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!! <3

 

Principal Wells's face is infuriatingly concerned. Max takes in his soft eyes, the slackness of his mouth as he pieces together what to say, the awkward rocking back and forth in his chair. She wants to leave. She wants to escape. His office is too cramped, too brown. She seeks fresh air and the bench by the lighthouse.

She keeps going back there lately, even though climbing the hill and the familiar, winding woodland path makes her flinch at the slightest snap of a twig. How jarring it is to have watched and experienced the lighthouse crack and tumble down in another time, another reality, only to come face to face with it sturdy and towering in this one. It taunts her, a message of where and why all of this began. It used to be a place from her childhood, the kind of memory that glowed pink and gold and  _innocent_ in her mind. Hours of hiking, playing and picnics underneath the pine trees. It used to be Max's favourite place.

Now, it reminds her of the last time she saw Chloe, the place where she made her choice. 

The place where it all ended, and the place where it all began. 

She doesn't know why she keeps going back. Probably to feel something,  _anything_ ; to feel Chloe on the bench next to her, pulling smoke from a cigarette and bitching about life. Some days, she really can feel her there, and she spends longer than she'll ever own up to just sitting there until sunset, imagining the conversations and the banter, replaying them over and over in her head again and again, until she tricks herself into believing Chloe's there, and ever present, and not going anywhere.

Most days, though, Max sits alone, and stays alone. The silence is consuming. 

"Miss Caulfield?"

Max glances up, startled. Wells is peering at her, that irritating wrinkle of worry crinkling the area between his eyebrows.

"Oh, sorry," she flushes. "I missed that."

Wells gives her this pitiful little smile. "I was  _saying_  that your teachers have been telling me you've been very distracted this week, which I think you just demonstrated."

"Sir--"

"Staring into space, being sloppy with your assignments, not participating in class..." Wells pauses, a heavy sigh leaving his lips. "You've had a hard time, I know. It's been a very difficult few weeks for all of us. Blackwell is prepared to help you in any way we can, but you have to help  _yourself_ , too, Max."

Max wants to retort that she never participated much in the first place, but stops herself just in time. The last thing she needs is to start answering back, and make Wells think she's some sort of problem child who they have to keep a close eye on. She wishes they just left her alone and let her deal with this. She feels like she's lost Chloe in a thousand other lives; she'll figure out how to survive losing her in this one, too. She doesn't need coddling. 

"I called you in here," says Wells, "to see how you were dealing with all of this, Max."

"Um, dealing, sir." 

"I understand that you were close with Chloe Price. If you're struggling with the work, or if you need some time--"

"No," she cuts him off abruptly. Takes a breath. "Thank you, sir, but I think it'd be better if I just keep going. I'm fine, really. I just need some..." She resists the profound urge to roll her eyes. "Uh,  _time_."

Wells nods, though his face is lined with disbelief. "If you're sure."

"I am."

"If you ever need to talk to someone, or you need a time-out for yourself, you know where I am."

Max bites her tongue. The memory of him drunk and slurring on the steps by the dorms still lingers vividly in her mind. She looks around his tidy, dull office and wonders if the whiskey bottle is still in the same place. Silhouettes of Chloe skulking around the shadows of this place after hours, searching his computer for all of Blackwell's dirty little secrets, come rushing back to her in a heavy haze.

He means well, but he can't help her. 

Max stands and smiles at him. "Thank you, sir. I'll let you know if I need any help."

"I hope so. The recent tragedy suffered here at Blackwell has to be something that we can rise above. We can only do that together, with student and staff both co-operating to get us all over these hurdles." 

It's like something out of one of his public statements to the newspapers, something he learned off by heart simply to vomit back out if he's ever ambushed in his office by a journalist with a microphone. 

She knows that he means well, but he can't help her. Blackwell could have helped Chloe a long time ago, and it could have helped Nathan. It's too late now. Max hates herself for it, but she sees through Wells's underwhelming pep talk. The smile she forces at him before she leaves is bitter and crumbles off her face before she's even turned her back. 

On her way out, she remembers the time Chloe blew up the door with a pipe bomb, and has to hold back the sad laugh that threatens to burst from her chest. 

 

* * *

 

 

Kate seems like her old self. Her room is no longer sombre and enclosed, but bright and effervescent. She hangs new posters, motivational ones that can't help but remind Max of St. Dymphna's, and gifts her rabbit with a bigger cage and a new spot in the sunlight. On a Tuesday afternoon, she takes the bus to town with Max and they buy a vibrant, multicolored patchwork quilt for Kate's bed, new pastel cardigans for the winter, and stop to have two cups of hot cocoa each in a small café by the movie theatre, sitting in a booth by a window draped in Halloween-themed fairy lights.

Kate smiles, laughs, is present in the moment again. She draws and sketches constantly. She leafs through her Bible and highlights her favourite passages in bright pink. She gets a job in the public library, and reads to toddlers twice a week. Max is so happy, so thrilled for her. 

But then, sometimes, the darkness pokes through. 

Kate sleeps with her lights on now, and doesn't leave her dorm room after nine, not even for the bathroom down the hall. She is jumpy and sometimes distant. She quickly grows timid and uncomfortable whenever Max tries to talk about something that isn't schoolwork, art or how awful the weather has been lately. Whenever Max takes out her camera to snap a photo opportunity, Kate will grow stiff and apprehensive.

The only thing Max seems to be able to do is stick by her, check up on her every day, and guide her through the hard times.

Three days before Halloween, Kate accompanies her to Chloe's grave.

"Max, look," Kate says excitedly, sinking down to a crouching position and reaching to cup her hand around some delicately potted flowers at the far right of the grave. The flowers are a pulsing, radiant yellow. "Mimosas."

The cemetery smells soapy and fresh after all the rain. Nearby, the grounds-keeper is toiling underneath the crisp sunlight, sinking his spade wetly into the damp earth and digging down. He's making a new grave, for another body. There's something melancholy in it all as Max watches him work, a bittersweet heaviness that overwhelms her. She wonders about who will be buried there, whether they will have a large crowd to mourn them or just a close circle. The cemetery is old, with gravestones stretching all the way back to the eighteen hundreds. So many lives, so many stories. 

They buried Rachel Amber beside her grandmother somewhere close by, underneath a yew tree. Apparently her grave is popular, receiving flowers and cards from members of the public, who followed the story on the news and must have felt affected by it. Max wants to go and see her, but can't bring herself to. Not yet. 

Kate lays her bunch of lillies down on the small ridge at the bottom of the gravestone. Max does the same, and then the two of them stand there, hands clasped in front of them, heads bowed, the sunlight gleaming through their hair. The breeze shivers the leaves of the trees that line the pathways. It's quiet, it's nice, and it's dismal. 

Chloe's gravestone is marble, shiny and new. A riot of color in a sea of chipped granite and limp flower bouquets, it stands out, the liveliest cemetery plot that Max has ever seen. She can't ever picture this grave going without fresh flowers every week; can't see it as someday abandoned and forgotten. Her heart feels heavy with the loss of one thousand lives, one thousand Chloes, one thousand roads not taken and threads of time and life. Max steps forward and lays her hand on the smooth curve at the top of the gravestone, her eyes fluttering closed.

Beloved Daughter. Died October 7, 2013; aged 19 years. 

Her whole life, summed up in a few words. 

Her fingers tighten. She tries to feel some connection to Chloe, the way she tries at the lighthouse. But the marble is cold, and it grants her no comfort.

Behind her, Kate begins to speak. "Do not stand at my grave and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep."

Max looks over her shoulder. Kate is kneeling, her hands clasped in prayer. Her gold crucifix glimmers in the sunlight, the chain hanging loose. 

"I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sunlight on ripened grain. I am the gentle autumn rain."

Max moves backwards slowly, to stand again beside Kate and bow her head. She shuts her eyes when they begin to sting. Pinpricks of sharp pain against the breeze.

Kate's voice is quiet and clear. "When you awaken in the morning’s hush, I am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night."

Chloe's voice fills and swells in her mind. It echoes, on and on. A kaleidoscope of color ripples before her; and the memories come, rising slowly to the surface of her mind's eye like leaves swirling on the surface of a river. A river of images, a river of stories. 

Chloe, on the first day of school, with a sparkly-purple backpack, animated and talkative where Max had been shy and awkward. " _I like your pencil case! Can I sit here? What's your name? I'm Chloe._ "

Chloe, with a pirate's eyepatch and a wooden sword that was really a wooden spoon, leaping off her parents' couch. " _Aaargh, Max! You must help me find my treasure map!_ "

Chloe, hands dusty with flour and caked in cookie dough, laughing in the saturated gold of the sunset in her kitchen. " _You stick to photography and I'll bake, Caulfield. You'd burn water!_ "

Chloe, face soft from sleep, in her pajamas at Max's house after a sleepover of movies, popcorn, laughing until 4am over ridiculous things. " _You snore REALLY bad, do you know that?_ "

Chloe, blue-haired and brave, picking her way down a railroad track. " _That's okay. We will. Forever._ "

Chloe, drenched in rainwater, her eyes brimming with tears. A last goodbye.  _"Max Caulfield, don't you forget about me._ "

The tears stream from her eyes without cease. She can't breathe, and the world is spinning too fast. She only notices that her shoulders are shaking when Kate curls her arm around her shoulders and squeezes gently.

Her voice is gentle and kind. It stabs at Max.

"Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there, I did not die."

 

* * *

 

 

She doesn't go to the drive-in. She texts Warren the most half-assed, pathetic excuse of all time, something about homework and exhaustion and not wanting to bring him down. The dejected, yet sympathetic response she gets back tugs hard at her heart. She is officially the worst friend in the world. Sometimes, she wishes that Warren would call her on it. He deserves better, so much better.

The dorm is silent and stagnant. Everyone is somewhere else, being young and carefree and having fun. 

Max calls her parents just to let thirty minutes slip by, but when she hangs up, the quiet threatens to suffocate her, swallow her whole. The boxes remain under her desk, asking to be opened. But she won't. She slumps at her desk and pulls out study notes, the words blurring on the pages, making her head feel heavy and full. 

That's when someone jabs her in the neck with a needle. 

Max falls.

The floor she hits is ice-cold and harsh. It numbs her bones and chatters her teeth, piercing her heart dead-centre with a freezing ice pick. The impact is a dizzying slap to the face, and she's spinning, whirring at two hundred miles per hour around the room, nausea churning deep in her gut. She tries to speak, but no words come. Her tongue is heavy and anaesthetized. She tastes salt and terror. Her eyes burn against a backdrop of blinding white. It's too much, too intense. She's going to die.

Thinly gloved hands ghost across her skin and she tries to thrash against them, but she can barely breathe. Those fingers raise goosebumps on her skin, make her want to vomit. Her eyes keep slipping closed --  _keep them open, goddamn it_ \-- and she's crying, the tears spilling down her cheeks the only burning heat she can feel. Her heart is racing. 

That soft voice, so menacing, whispering right in her ear.

A camera clicks somewhere far away.

She tries to scream, but it's like her throat's been cut. He's getting another dose ready. She tries to crawl away, but his hand is curling tight in the back of her head and yanking her back, pulling her with force. He's angry, he's going to kill her. The needle glints angrily in the white-light and it's about to pierce her skin--

Max jerks awake, her head turned at a crooked angle on her desk. Opening her eyes feels like tearing skin, but for once, she's relieved to see her dorm room. Warm, colorful, safe.

_Just a dream. Just a fucking nightmare._

She pushes herself away from the desk, shuddering, brushing her hair out of her eyes. Her neck aches because of the angle she'd fallen asleep at, and her eyes feel gritty with sand and grogginess. If she tries to sleep again, she'll just fall backwards into that chilling hell. She can't stay here. A few hours out this space will do her good. It's only nine thirty, and by the time she gets back, everyone else will have hopefully arrived back too. It's less scary going to sleep if she can hear Dana giggling, Juliet talking, Stella singing softly to herself on the way back from a shower.

She grabs a warm sweater and her shoes. 

She goes to one place she always used to run away to when she was upset. 

 

* * *

 

 

"I remember the last time you sat in this kitchen after a bad dream. You were twelve years old. God, feels like a lifetime ago."

Max smiles. "I remember." Her hands cup a warm cup of cocoa. She raises it to her lips and takes a sip. Delicious; the comfort that she needs. "We thought it would be such a great idea to camp outside."

" _Chloe's_ idea, I'm sure. Spent a lot of money buying you girls that tent, and the whole afternoon pitchin' it up in the backyard." She shakes her head, resting her eyes on Max with firm affection. "And then you two were - what? A grand total of two hours inside it?"

"Something like that." Max blushes. "Uh, sorry again, by the way."

"William was so worried. He found you two cryin' in the kitchen, holding onto your little torches for dear life." Joyce sits across from her, nursing a black coffee. She's in a periwinkle-blue bathrobe, her hair in a messy topknot. The kitchen is warm and full of soft light. "What did you two think you saw? A  _wolf_?"

"Um, _yes,_ " Max replies, laughing. "I'll always remember William heading out into the backyard with that baseball bat."

"Only to find a little raccoon," Joyce is laughing too. It looks like she needs it. It comes out so easy and once she starts, she can't stop. "William ran back into the house, waving that baseball bat around like a lunatic, yelling about how he'd protect us all from 'that bloodthirsty beast'."

The laughter fades, and Joyce falls quiet again. The look on her face makes Max reach out and squeeze her hand.

"That man was ridiculous," Joyce says quietly. "I could never even try to start an argument with him, he'd just make me crack up. He never took _anything_ seriously." 

"He was wonderful, Joyce," Max agrees. "I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I miss him a lot."

William was sunlight, and bounce, and buckets of incurable optimism. He loved board games and always let Max win, loved long drives and hikes up to the lighthouse, loved jam doughnuts and silly novelty t-shirts. Plus, he'd made the best bacon and eggs known to mankind. Losing him had been like losing her own parent. And watching him walk down that hallway, knowing that he was another victim of fate and time, it had torn her apart. Trying to understand the alternative timeline had felt like being pulled and ripped in two different directions. Two lives, two realities, and she'd had to choose. Time mocking her again, like holding up a mirror and jeering at her, saying  _Look, this is what you did. This is your fault. Fix it._

The clock on the wall ticks in the silence. Max suppresses the urge to get up and smash it. 

Joyce squeezes her hand tightly. "The only comfort I find in all of this is that he's up there with Chloe, and the two of them are having a blast."

Max looks around, to the beer bottles lined up like bowling pins on the counter tops and windowsills, to the plates piled high in the sink. "Is David here?" she asks.

Joyce sits back, and her voice sounds uneven when she speaks. "No, he's out." She sighs. "He's still on leave from Blackwell, but I know that he goes there at night."

Max blinks. "You don't ask him why?"

"I have a fair idea. I think he goes back to the bathroom. I think must just stand there and try to feel close to her, to try and understand." The next sip of her coffee is long. "If that's what it is, then he's not doing a thing wrong. He's grieving, like all of us."

"But--"

"I'd be lost without him, Max." In the low light, Max sees her eyes are glassy with tears. "And people grieve in different ways. If he wants to wander around the school at night to try and get some closure, I don't have a problem with it."

In the pause that follows, Max sips her cocoa and frowns at the table. The David Madsen in this timeline barely knows her, most likely doesn't trust her, and is probably still doing more harm than good. She'll have to check in on him soon.  _That's_ going to be an interesting conversation. 

"So," Joyce says, smiling at her kindly. "You never told me what this nightmare was about."

"Nothing, really."

"Talking about it helps, you know."

"Just... old memories. Bad ones. Stuff I'd rather forget."

"I'd say your mind is just overwhelmed lately. I'm not sleeping so well, either. The house is so... quiet." 

"I feel better now," Max says. "Your cocoa is practically the cure for nightmares."

Joyce laughs lightly. "You're sweet. And I'm glad to hear it, and glad that you came by. We'll always be here for you, Max."

"I know. Same here."

"Would you like to sleep here tonight? Couch is a pull-out."

It sounds more enticing than the silence of her dorm, but avoiding her bed and avoiding being alone would be a bad habit to get into. Regardless, she feels guilty when she shakes her head.

"I'd love to, but I should get back to Blackwell. I still have school tomorrow."

"Another time then. Come on," Joyce stands and grabs her keys. "I'll drive you."

On the way to the front door, they pass all of the photographs on the wall, and Max slows to look. There's a new addition to the wall. Joyce has framed the picture she kept in her nightstand and hung it up - the picture of she and William, newly married, young and golden and ready to take on the world, Joyce's stomach swollen with baby Chloe. 

They had their whole lives ahead of them, countless firsts, thousands of roads to take, milestones to reach. 

They used to be the lucky ones. 

Max wonders why it had to change.

 

* * *

 

 

When she arrives at St. Dymphna's with a small cellophane bag of potato chips and a still-warm BLT, straight from the Two Whales, Nell is obviously startled to see her. 

Max is surprised, too. She didn't think she was going to come back either.

"Hey." Nell is behind the nurse's desk at the top of the ward, buried in paper work. "Happy belated Halloween."

The decorations are gone, and the ward is back to its bare, basic self. "You too," Max says. She lingers awkwardly at the desk, looking around. Nathan's nowhere to be found.

"He's in his room," Nell tells her. "You just missed his family."

Max holds her tongue, because that's probably a good thing. Instead, she smiles weakly and asks, "Parents?"

Nell nods. "And a little kid. They were only here for ten minutes; dropped off some clothes and high-tailed it out of here pretty quick."

_Sounds like Sean Prescott._

Max hesitates for a moment, chewing on her lip. "How is he?"

"Good days and bad days. Today's a good day."

Max eyes her mountain of files and papers without envy. "I hope I'm not disturbing you, you know, with the supervising."

"First of all, you could never disturb me, because I'm an extraordinary procrastinator and any interruption is a Godsend. Second of all," she grins, "Nathan's passed the window of supervision required for a case like his. You don't need a supervisor anymore."

That fills Max with a mixture of relief and fear. "Oh?"

"You just can't go into his room anymore. That was fine with a supervisor present, but you'll have to have your visitation in this common area today, if that's all right."

Less fear, more relief. She's still not sure whether or Nathan is pissed off by her visits. At least with a supervisor, he couldn't really voice it. If he's going to be pissed off and yell at her, she'd rather it be in a common area with Nell close by. 

Nell stands. "I'll go grab him. Take a seat anywhere you like."

Max goes over and sits at a small table near the ward doors, next to a window looking out over the grounds. The lighthouse is visible on the right background. It's like it follows her - a reminder of why she comes here, what she's trying to achieve, what she's eventually hoping to understand.

While she waits, she grabs two sodas from the vending machine by the desk. She's sitting again and placing them on the table when Nell rounds the corner, Nathan in tow.

At least he came out of his room, maybe he does want to see her. That's a good sign, right? Or, maybe he just feels forced into this, and the last thing he wants to do is listen to her ramble non-nonsensically for half an hour every week.

He's pale, but otherwise okay. As okay as Nathan Prescott can be in this current situation. She's relieved, and tries to tell him such in the smile she sends him. She'd been so anxious on the bus, picturing him going right back to square one after last week's ordeal. When he sits across from her, she passes him the bag of food and the soda, and though he doesn't look at her or even acknowledge her at all, Max can't help but feel some strange kind of unspoken recognition. He's relatively okay with her being here again, with her being here at all. He's not the vegetable he'd been in the first week. 

"Alright, I'll let you know when your half hour is up." She gives them a reassuring smile and a little wave as she heads back to the desk. 

Max clears her throat, wondering if she should start, like she always does. She watches him open the bag and take out the sandwich. He takes a bite and stares at the table as he chews. His motions aren't as controlled or as listless, he's actually moving like anyone else would. In the other versions of time, he'd been a little jerky, something rigid yet unpredictable in the way he conducted himself. Now, he seems... _normal_. Or at least close to it. 

_Okay, stop staring at him, weirdo._

"I didn't know what you liked," Max says, "But I guess you _do_ like BLTs."

He has it devoured within minutes. He opens his soda with still fingers, and Max does the same. 

"You look much better," she tells him. He's wearing a burgundy hoodie and the scrub pants, his hair tidy and clean. His skin has some more color in it, too, like he's been sleeping better. At least that makes one of them. She presses her lips together. "So, your family was here?"

No response. A good sign. She'd imagined him flipping the table again. 

"I know your dad a little," she says, and it's basically testing the waters now. "Well, I know of him, I guess. He's... some kind of businessman?" She's grown used to his lack of acknowledgement of anything she says, so she barely pauses now after her questions. "I don't know your mom, though. Have you any brothers or sisters?" 

She thinks that he has an older sister, but she's pretty sure he doesn't want to know about the time past Max broke into his dorm room and sifted through all of his shit.

 Nathan picks up the potato chips, but his mouth stays shut. 

"I wish I had a brother or sister," Max goes on. "When I was little, I used to pretend I had a twin sister. I thought that would be the coolest thing ever." She laughs a little, as the memory comes back. "Weird, I know. Being an only child is  _not_ all it's cracked up to be, especially when your parents live, like, six hours away."

She's told him about her parents before, and Seattle, but now she delves into grandparents who own a farm in Connecticut and an aunt who makes and sells her own pottery and handmade  jewellery, plus the uncle with the drinking problem that no one speaks to, but still worries about constantly. Nathan listens, hands on his lap, watching the table with intense concentration. 

He eats potato chips and scratches his nail into the wood of the table as she tells him about school again, about Wells calling her into his office, about the drive-in, and unexpectedly her nightmare, as well. Of course, she mentions nothing about the dark room or Jefferson, and doesn't actually go into any detail about it at all, but he seems to sit up a little as she talks about it. She feels a flutter of affection for Joyce when she finishes - talking about it does help, no matter how vague. 

He reaches for the last couple potato chips, but fumbles the bag when his hand shakes. It's an odd sort of tremor, hard and side-to-side, shuddering all the way up to his wrist. He balls up his hand into a fist, clenching it, and sits on it.

Max, feeling uncharacteristically brave, asks, "Does it hurt?"

He's looking at the wall, at a giant green poster that reads  _I Am Resilient._

"It must be annoying, when it just spasms like that." 

Nathan looks at her. Max isn't so startled by it any more. His eyes are soft, but blank, and he might as well be looking through her, but it's something. Max practices holding his gaze as she speaks.

"Nathan, are you happy here? Do you... do you understand why you have to stay in here?"

He brings his hand back to the table and lays it down flat. It's steady. 

"I know it must be hard," Max continues. "If you need anything else, seriously, let me know."

She becomes aware of the click of heels, marching towards her. Nell taps her lightly on the shoulder.

"Same time next week?" she says to Max. 

"Of course." Max smiles. 

She left her coat with Nell behind the desk, and she watches as Nell wanders off to get it. 

Outside the window, it's getting dark, the sky falling a deep and stirring cobalt, the silhouettes of the trees that cluster around Arcadia outlined in charcoal. The faint beam of the lighthouse winks at her in greeting. 

"Max?"

She stops. 

She turns around, eyebrows raising, lips parting, baffled, because that voice--

It's Nathan, and he's looking at her immovably, hands on his lap, and he's  _talking_ \--

Max stares.

Nathan is oblivious.

His voice is quiet, but clear, and the words come from him easily. 

Max can't look away.

"Could you bring me my jacket next week?" He asks. "It's red. Victoria Chase has it." 

Max realizes she's been gaping at him for ten seconds. Her face grows hot. "Sure. Um. Of course I will. I'll - I'll bring it for you next week."

Nathan nods, and it's like he goes into lock-down, like speaking that much just took it out of him. He bows his head and his posture dips a little, and he's fixated on the floor again. 

Nell is there, then, passing her her own coat. "See you soon."

Max releases the breath she's been holding only when she's back in the reception. 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much for the unbelievable feedback, it leaves me giddy and grateful. You're all supremely wonderful! I hope that enjoy this one! :D

Justin shoves his calloused hands into his pockets, grimacing as a shiver prickles up his spine. 

"Fuckin' cold," he says.

"It's November," Brooke drawls. "And it's raining,  _and_ you're wearing cargo shorts, Einstein." 

Justin rolls his eyes and jostles with Trevor to get a privileged space underneath the shade of Max's umbrella. "Duh," he says, "I can't thrash in  _jeans_. Who do you take me for?"

It's a weighty, frosty rain that spills from the sky in fat, icy raindrops and pricks Max's skin, making her teeth chatter. They're all sat on the damp front steps of the dormitory, watching the rain fall, feeling the wind blow. The evenings are rolling in faster, darker, and Max can already see the rain clouds pushing in the night. It's been another long day, the kind of day that is just so typically Blackwell, monotonous and routine, and Max feels a swelling sense of gratitude that she is here, right now, with the first group of friends that she's ever had. She's begun to avoid being alone for as long as she possibly can.

The shooting in the bathroom has brought them all closer. It had been inevitable, really, with Justin and Trevor having been good friends with Chloe, they naturally drifted towards others like Max who'd known her, others who had experienced the wild, wide-eyed rush that was Chloe Price, just to share stories and memories and keep her alive in some form. And afterwards, they stuck around. Max is glad, because it's starting to feel like she didn't lose anyone else, just Chloe. Trevor's presence has pulled in Dana to some of their hang-out sessions, and then through Dana, had come Juliet. In the beginning, it had felt like she was only there for the opportunity of hearing gossip for the school paper, but now time has passed, and she's settled in. They all have, and it's nice. Max didn't expect this timeline to give her people back. She's so used to time taking things away. 

Warren nudges her. "Are you cold?" 

Before she can answer, he's already shrugged his jacket off and tucked it around her shoulders. 

It _is_ warm, and it smells of him, that comforting scent of boy-deodorant and the soap from the science lab; but it's also all wrong. She feels... _awkward_ , and the smug smirk that Dana shoots her over her shoulder doesn't help. 

She needs to have 'that talk' with Warren, the one she'd rather stick pins in her eyes than have, but it'll happen at some point. Has to. She owes it to him. She can't do it yet, though, not in front of everyone. Juliet would probably put it in paper. 

She pulls out her camera and takes a photograph of the rain, hammering the front of the dormitory. The tiny squirrels and rabbits dart for cover underneath the shade, sticking their little noses out to smell, inspect. 

"Can we go in now?" Kate asks hopefully, sandwiched between Brooke and Warren. "I'm  _freezing_."

Justin's already standing, shaking himself like a finicky cat. "Yeah, watching the rain kind of loses its appeal once you start to look like a drowned fucking rat." He tips his head towards the door. "Skate competition in the hallway of the boys dorm. Who's in?"

"Hell yeah!" Warren exclaims, enthusiastic as ever, getting to his feet. "I've gotten way better since last time, by the way."

That has Trevor cracking up, and soon they all are. "Cut the crap, Graham," he jokes, "If you break your neck in the dorm, I'm _pretty_ sure I'll get a fine. Stick to the beakers and test tubes, man."

Max turns on the steps as they trod in, looking just one last time at the calming pound of the rain. She spots something that makes her stop.

Brooke, the last inside, leans against the door and nods at her. "Are you coming, Max?"

"I'll follow you guys up," Max tells her.

Brooke shrugs, disappearing into the foyer and letting the door click closed behind her. Max goes down a step, her shoe squelching, and raises one clammy, wet hand in a shy half-wave. Samuel, who had just come around the corner, stops on the way to his shed, and comes towards her. He's drenched, the knees of his overalls stained with mud. Over his shoulder, he's carrying a rake with freshly-fallen leaves clinging to the tines. His eyes are kind. 

"Hello there, Max," he says breezily. "You should get out of the rain, before you catch a cold."

Max smiles at him. "You're doing yardwork in this weather?" 

He laughs lightly. "Oh, Samuel works in all weather. The campus always has something for me to do," he replies. "What about you?"

"Why I am out in the rain?" When he nods, Max shrugs and murmurs, "Let's just say I've been finding my dorm a little... suffocating."

Samuel's eyes seem to round, a mixture of sadness and something else undecipherable. "You lost a friend last month."

"I did. It's been really hard." She looks down at the water running off the steps, a tiny, skinny stream. "I can't stop thinking about it. I - I hadn't seen Chloe, my friend, for a couple years and I keep thinking that maybe I could have saved her. Like, there was some... other way." At Samuel's warm eyes, she laughs a little. "Sorry, I know I'm not making sense."

"You shouldn't dwell on the past, young Max."

Max looks up at him, and says, "I guess I just don't understand it. Why it had to happen."

"Fate offers us no explanation." 

"And that's it? We're just supposed to accept that?" She can't keep the spite out of her voice. 

"Not accept," Samuel says. "Understand."

Max falls quiet. The sound of the rain thrums in her ears.

"Don't worry, Max. Time is a terrific healer."

She sighs. "So I've heard." 

"Look forward. Not back. And Max, the path you follow will lead you to you to understanding. You just need to trust in it. And trust in yourself."

"Thank you, Samuel." His words feel _true_ , but she can't bring herself to believe them. They slip through her fingers. 

She watches him go, slow, careful steps through saturated grass, his head bowed as he disappears into the shed. Max lingers on the steps for a moment, inhaling the smell of the rain and the asphalt, so potent and fresh. Her mind is a little clearer by the time she heads inside.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning is clear, foggy and cold. Max catches up on homework by the window sill, looking out over the thick mist that settles heavy over campus. The very top of the lighthouse pokes out above the trees in the far distance. She falls into long stretches of time where she just stares at it, consumed and entranced. Her dad used to tell old Arcadia stories about the lighthouse being the 'guardian' of the town, looking over all of them as they slept, lived, went about their daily business. She wonders now if that is actually true. With everything that's happened lately, a self-aware lighthouse wouldn't surprise her.

She waters Lisa, her leaves glossy and bright, and browses on her laptop until the corridor outside begins to fill with the usual sounds of the morning routine. Her phone buzzes with a barrage of messages from Warren, inviting her to breakfast at the Two Whales, asking her to join him in the library, asking her to do anything, really. She texts back something non-committal, and pulls on some clothes. 

She's been putting it off, pushing it to the very back recesses of her mind, but now, she has to deal with it. She needs to do it.

She lingers outside Victoria's door for a moment, before she finds the courage to knock.

Victoria doesn't answer right away. Max hears the undoubted sounds of her getting out of bed, knocking things over as she stumbles sleepily towards the door. She braces herself as the door opens, barely cracking open. Max expects to see the familiar bright chic of Victoria's room greeting her through the gap in the door. Instead, she just sees darkness.

Victoria stands in pajama shorts and a loose t-shirt, peering out at her with a pinched expression, rubbing her eyes groggily. Her hair, usually so immaculate, sticks up in a hundred different directions.

Max offers a bright smile which is not returned.

"Hey, Victoria. Sorry to wake you, but, I was hoping that I could come in for a second?"

Victoria frowns, and for a moment, she looks like the same-old Victoria, deeply suspicious of everything and anything Max could possibly be doing. "Why?"

"I just want to talk." She swallows. "Or, uh, I can go. It's fine. No big--"

"No, come in." Victoria steps aside and holds the door open, letting the light spill in. When Max hesitates, the frown returns. "Are you coming or not?"

Max brushes past her, stepping into Victoria Chase's dorm room voluntarily for the first time since... well, ever. She wanders over to the plush purple swivel chair by Victoria's closet, while Victoria drags herself over to the windows and opens the blinds. The room brightens, and Max surveys. Victoria's clothes, more expensive than Max's tuition by the looks of things, litter the floor in crumpled piles. The room feels heavy and musty, as though the window's haven't been open in a while. School books are tossed carelessly across her desk, and her posters hang askew. Max shifts uncomfortably, feeling her heart sink deep in her chest wherever she looks. 

Victoria flops down onto her bed across from Max, and stares at her, waiting. Max realizes she's not going to say anything, and flushes. 

She really didn't want to be the one to start this conversation.

So, she won't. Not yet, anyway. She can't just blurt it out. 

Instead, she asks her, "How are you?"

Victoria's answering scowl nearly makes her get up and leave again. "Is that all you wanted to ask?" 

Max squares her shoulders and tries to sound upbeat. "I can't ask how you're doing?"

"We aren't friends." 

It's cold and blunt. Max's smile dips.

"We're not enemies, either," she offers, and Victoria scoffs.

"God, don't _whine_ ," she says tiredly. "Look, I just woke up, and you just come in here and want to hang out all of a sudden? What the hell? Since when have you ever cared enough to talk to anyone other than your nerdy little friends?"

"What if I do care?"

 _Ooh, wrong answer_. Victoria's face steels. "Are you kidding?"

Max pauses, trying to pick her next words carefully. "I'm not trying to piss you off, Victoria, I'm sorry. It's just kind of obvious that you're going through a rough time right now. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Yeah? Well, awesome for you. Everything  _sucks_ right now. But I'll get through it." She runs a hand through her hair, looking haughty. "I always do. I don't need your pity, Caulfield."

Max bites her lip. "I'm sorry."

"You said that."

"I  _am_ sorry." Max says, and, because it's now or never, "You lost your best friend. I know a thing or two about how that feels."

Victoria's eyes narrow, but Max doesn't get the biting reply that she expects. Victoria crosses her arms and looks away.

The anger ebbs away, slowly, and then the sadness comes. 

When Victoria speaks, her voice is brittle. "What happened to Chloe and what happened to Nathan are two very different things," she says. "So don't try to understand. You won't." Her eyes rest on her, watery and red. "You couldn't understand."

"Then help me understand." Max sits forward. "You aren't okay, Victoria."

The silence presses against the walls. Victoria's very still for one long, unending moment, and then, her bottom lip is wobbling, and her head is falling into her hands as the tears come. Max gets up and sits down beside her, laying her hand gently on the trembling ridge of Victoria's shoulder.

Victoria tries to catch her breath. It shakes in her throat. "I could talk to him about anything. He was my  _best friend._ Nobody understood me like he did, nobody."

Max rubs her shoulder in rhythmic circles, and she sits up, reaching for a long lilac scarf to dab her eyes with. 

"His family - he came to  _me_ for support. His father --" She trails off, shaking her head. "I kept telling him that he needed to get help, to talk to somebody professional, you know? But I think he thought his dad would be pissed, or ashamed, if he did. He never understood Nathan's problems. He just -  _dismissed_ them, dismissed _him_." Victoria balls up the scarf in her hands and hurls it across the room. "And then he goes and _shoots_ somebody in the fucking bathroom? What the _fuck_ , Max? Don't you get it? That's on me. I should have -- should have convinced him to go for help, to not tell his family. Maybe then he would have taken his meds. Maybe then he wouldn't have --" 

There are moments, moments like this, when Max wishes she could take people back in time, or forward, and show them the things that she's seen, heard, learned, so that they didn't have to deal with the pain rolling in their heads and hearts.

But all she can offer Victoria is, "Don't say that. That's not on you. There was nothing any of us could have done."

Victoria frowns at her, not out of anger, but as if she's struggling to comprehend her. "How can you say that? How are you so  _okay_ with all of this _shit?_ My best friend kills your best friend, like, what the fuck? And you're seriously okay with it? You're okay with me?"

Max pauses. 

"I believe," she says eventually, "that things just happen, and it's always unavoidable. There's never anything anyone can do to... reverse time. To stop the bad shit from happening. It just happens. It's - it's fate. It's just fate. And being angry doesn't bring people back, or fix everything. You can't be angry at fate." She looks down at her hands and shakes her head. "The only thing you can do is try and understand it."

Victoria sniffs miserably. "How the fuck do you understand something like that?" 

Max smiles. "I have no fucking idea." She nudges her with her knee. "When I find out, I'll let you know."

In the quiet that follows, Max gets up and pulls bunches of Kleenex from the packet on the coffee table, and hands them to her. While she's standing, she spots a photograph on Victoria's desk, and can't help but go over to it and pick it up. She's seen it before - in Nathan's room, stuck at the back of a desk drawer. The picture of he and Victoria, tongues out, fingers pointed into bull horns. Once, it had irritated Max, made her scoff and roll her eyes. Now, it fills her with a prodding sadness.

"His mom came by last month, to clean out his dorm room," Victoria tells her, seeing her looking. "That was one of the things I took."

"One of the things?"

Victoria crumples her tissue and starts tearing strips off it, letting the pieces flutter to the floor. "Other photos, his camera. Memories." 

Max presses her lips together. "Did you... take a jacket?"

"Yeah. His red jacket. He fucking lived in the thing." She looks over, frowning. "Why?"

"He, um, asked me if you could give it back to him."

Victoria stares.

And stares.

Max considers bolting for the door.

"...He what?"

Max had pictured her taking this slowly, step-by-step, easing into it so as to not freak Victoria out too much. 

The opposite happens. Once she's opened her mouth, the words just tumble out, and she can't stop them.

"I've been going to see him at St. Dymphna's. I go every week, I've been going since Chloe's funeral. I bring him food now, and we just talk. Well, I do. But he listens. And then last week, he asked me if I could ask you to give him his jacket back. I think he misses it. He has to wear all of the hospital's, like, lost-and-found hoodies, and--"

"What?" Victoria cuts her off, her face pale. "You - _what?_ "

"This... it sounds weird, doesn't it."

"You've been visiting him?" Victoria repeats, frowning as though the words are of a foreign language. 

Max swallows. She's sweating. "Yeah. I have."

She expects Victoria to kick her out. She expects her to fly off the handle, scream, demand, cry. She's surprisingly wrong on both counts.

Instead, Victoria sends a confused sort of look towards the carpet, and asks, in the quietest voice Max has ever heard,

"...How is he?"

Max exhales the breath she'd been holding. "He's okay."

Victoria blinks, like she's coming out of a dream.

She asks, "How?"

"He just... is. He's getting there. Slowly. But he asked for you." She tries to hook her gaze. "You should visit him, you know. I'm going tomorrow night. You should come with."

"I can't," Victoria replies quickly, and she sounds...  _afraid._ "Max, I-I can't. I can't see him like that."

"It's not so bad. It's not what I expected it to be."

"It doesn't matter what it is. He doesn't _belong_ there!"

"I'm not forcing you to," says Max. 

Victoria wipes roughly at her eyes, and stands. Max watches her move towards her closet, and open the drawer. She pulls out Nathan's jacket - Max would know it anywhere. 

Victoria returns, and holds it out to her. She's not crying anymore, but she suddenly looks exhausted, and far older than she actually is. 

"Tell him I'm sorry," Victoria says quietly. "I just can't."

Max nods. She reaches out and takes the jacket, patting Victoria's arm as she pulls back.

"I will. I'll tell him." 

Victoria pauses, looking thoughtful. She raises her eyebrows. "You bring him food?"

"Yeah. Mostly sandwiches."

Victoria smiles then, fondly. It doesn't reach her eyes, but it's a smile, nonetheless. 

"His favorite is banana."

 

* * *

 

 

She finds him at the same table as last week, his nose buried midway through the third Baker book. Nell is nowhere to be found, but the orderly she checks in with at the desk is friendly, and when she turns around, Nathan is looking at her. 

She drops into the chair across from him, and immediately passes him aluminium-wrapped sandwiches and two chocolate chip cookies. He seems tired today, and doesn't reach for them right away. 

It's already dark outside, and Max watches the faint shine of a boat coming into harbour as Nathan eats. The ward is unusually quiet, with just a few patients watching television on the couch, engrossed in a cheesy, glitter-and-lights gameshow, the kind of thing her dad would love. Max has come to know the same faces as the weeks have gone by. She can't help but wonder why they're here, who they are, when they're getting out. If they ever will. 

Nathan is still reading as he eats, crumbs falling into the pages. He brushes them away and looks up at Max, his face blank but not hostile, either. He stays looking at her, focused on her face until she feels like she's under a microscope. 

"I heard you liked banana."

He doesn't react, just swipes his hand across the page again and swallows. 

Max reaches into her backpack, and he stops chewing at the sight of the jacket. 

She hands it to him, and for a second, all he does is hold it, hands moving over the fabric. Then, he moves the fastest that Max has ever seen - shucking off the threadbare blue hoodie he has on, and pulling on the jacket instead. 

Max hates the slight flutter of anxiety that bristles inside her. The sight of him in that jacket, it brings the worst memories back. The darkest days. 

She must have gone quiet, because when she rouses herself and turns back to him, she sees he's snapped one of the cookies in half and is holding it out to her. 

"Thank you." She takes it, smiling. It's delicious, of course, freshly baked by Joyce's replacement. 

Max reaches for her backpack again. Nathan stills.

Max slides the photograph across the table, inches from his hand. The picture of them at their happiest, the most  _them_ picture that Max has ever seen.

"Victoria wanted you to have that, too." 

Nathan picks it up, and the tremble in his hand is unmistakable. She wonders whether he even recognizes the boy in that picture anymore. It feels like another world - to the both of them. 

Nathan sets the picture down, but he doesn't tear his eyes from it. There's a new stiffness in his posture that makes Max nervous. His jaw is set tight.

He speaks, his voice low and hard.

"She's not here."

Max shakes her head, Slow. "She _wanted_ to, but..." Max feels useless. "She said you'd understand."

He's gone rigid again, his eyes dark and narrow. 

"I'm sorry."

He looks away. 

"...Bet it's nice to have your jacket back though, right?"

The chair shrieks as he gets up. 

Then, he's gone, on his feet and marching down the hallway, the picture in hand, shoulders squared. Max clambers to her feet and is halfway after him, her stomach blossoming into knots, when Nell comes out of the back of the nurses desk, cradling a mug of black coffee. She whips her head down the hallway and a large piece of concern appears to be stretching itself out wide across her face.

She comes out from behind the desk, raising her eyebrows at Max.

"He just took off," says Max. "I don't think I said anything, but... should I go after him?"

"You'll probably get more from him than I would. But if he's in his room, you need a supervisor." She gestures to herself, grinning. "I keep all my paperwork for your visit days."

Max looks down the hall. "He's talking now."

Nell's eyes twinkle. "I noticed. He's not exactly Mr. Chatterbox, granted, but yeah, he is still talking." She winks. "Due in no small part to you, I'm sure."

Max goes to disagree but Nell's already gone, beckoning her to follow.

Nathan's room is different than the last time she'd been in it. There's a scratchy-looking red and black quilt strung across the bed now, and a pile of books stacked in a tower on the nightstand. A single picture is stuck to the wall by his bed. 

Nathan is kneeling on his pillow, and is in the process of sticking up the picture of he and Victoria. 

Nell sits on the floor, spreading her files all around her like a wall. Max laces her hands together in front of her as she walks nervously over to him. She leans in and examines the other existing picture on the wall.

The tightly-smiling, lined face of Sean Prescott stares back at her, his arm around the sharp shoulders of a tall, imposing blonde woman who has Nathan's features, but not obviously, framed by a few dangling wisps of hair. Next to her stands a younger-looking Nathan, arms crossed, unsmiling around his mouth but it's there in his eyes. Next to his father is a tall, pretty girl who looks to be a few years older, who looks more like Sean, sharper and angular. She's grinning, and it's genuine. A little ahead of her is another boy a little older again, with a handsome, boyish face, broad-shouldered and smirking. In the front of all of them, a little boy, eight or nine years old, grins wide at the camera, gaps in between his teeth. His hair is a soft caramel-brown, and he's the perfect blend of both his parents. Max leans away, surprised. 

"This is your family?" she asks.

Nathan makes a non-committal sound, some sort of low grunt. After he sticks up the new photograph, he steps back and then he's standing beside her, staring at the wall as well. 

Max points at each of the faces, intrigued. "So, you have a sister? And two brothers? I didn't know that." She's drawn to the smirking boy, his face so pleasant and inviting. 

Nathan follows her gaze. "Dean," he says. "He's dead."

Max starts. She opens her mouth to say something, fumbling for the words in her head, but Nathan just turns away from the wall and sits down on his bed. He taps his fingers against his knees. He's slouched, drumming his fingers against his knees, agitated.

Max sits on the chair by the window, her skin prickling with heat. 

She gets the feeling that he doesn't want to talk about it, and she's not going to force him. Not when the right words to say fail her, too. Max feels a pang as she looks at the wall. An idea strikes her, fervent and flashing like a neon sign in her brain.

She reaches for her bag and digs in it, searching for her journal. She lets it fall open on her lap, and leafs through it until she reaches the cluster of pages where she keeps her photos.

"That wall needs more pics," Max says easily, pulling out the picture she took two days ago of the rain pouring over campus, gray and soft and peaceful. She reaches for the tape and sticks it to the wall, just above the picture of Nathan and Victoria. She looks down at Nathan. "Can I bring you pictures next week? I'll bring you pictures and you can stick them up." 

Nathan doesn't answer. He seems distant; makes Max's stomach curl unpleasantly. 

Nell looks up, a sympathetic expression etched on her face. 

"I think Nathan's tired," she says. "I guess you should head home, Max."

Max nods, and is surprised by the tightness in her chest, the disappointment that floods her. She doesn't want to go. 

She grabs her stuff and moves towards the door, nodding at Nell as she gets up. 

She looks back, and the sight of Nathan sitting alone in the bed utterly derails her. She calls out a goodbye to him, but it goes unanswered.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, you stars, for reading this and sharing your thoughts with me! I keep saying it, but I am honestly so blown away by the response to this. You're extraordinary! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this one!!! I have three blissful weeks of no-essays, so I hope to get the next update out very soon! <3

 

Early on a Monday morning, before her classes even begin, before most of the dormitory has even thought about getting out of bed, Max showers, dresses, and takes her camera outside. 

The veiled gray sunlight illuminates the front of the dormitories in a calming November hue, and Max pauses to sink down and hover above the springy, damp grass, her camera aimed hopefully at the tiny squirrels and rabbits foraging for their breakfasts of tossed-away muffins and sandwiches by the trash can. She takes some good pictures, shaking them with a small smile on her face, slipping them into her journal for safe-keeping. Nathan doesn't strike her as the cute animals type, but he needs something to brighten up the drabness of his room, the cold walls and bare furnishings. She's fairly confident he'll like these. If not, he's probably not going to say anything, any way.

She crawls up close to a squirrel balanced on the bench, nibbling at the broken-up crust of a sandwich at rapid speed. He regards her curiously, and Max smiles, leaning over to snap another photograph, one that she'd like to keep herself. 

The sleepy chirp of the birds above her head is broken every now and then by the greeting scream of a seagull. Max tips her head back and observes two of them circling the roof. She takes a picture of that, too, and is suddenly struck by the memory that Nathan seems to like whales. She lowers her camera as her teeth come out to bite down with disappointment on her bottom lip. The only picture she could give him of them is of the beached whales she'd taken in the other timeline, the timeline that had jarred and upset her so much, the timeline she doesn't ever want to think about again. There's no way she can give that to him. Plus, beached whales is not exactly the most cheerful image. 

"Hey! You there!" 

Max almost drops her camera, the voice startles her so much. She fumbles with it awkwardly for a moment, and by the time she has turned around, she sees David, marching towards her with the same mistrustful old glare that she'd been so used to. 

She's surprised to see him, but figures it's about time that he came back to Blackwell. He looks thin and pasty, the pale-saturated sunlight highlighting the gray, waxy stains of his skin in all the wrong ways. His uniform hangs baggier on his already lanky frame, and he looks as though he hasn't slept in years.

"Oh," He stops when he reaches her, his eyebrows knitting close together in a look of awkward apprehension. "Max Caulfield," he says. "You were... Chloe's friend."

Max nods slow. "I didn't get the chance to talk to you after the funeral, Mr. Madsen." She nearly called him David, forgetting that  _this_ David is not the one she ended up getting to know. 

He shifts, clearly uncomfortable. "What are you doing out here?" he demands.

"I was just taking some photos. For, uh, class." She adds hastily. 

"You should be in your dorm. It's too early for you to be out here." He's staring at her like she's hiding bloodied hands behind her back, and he's eager to catch her burying the body. 

She shrugs. "I couldn't sleep." Feeling brave, she hooks his stony-gaze and says, "I actually had to go to Joyce a couple weeks ago. Her hot cocoa always made Chloe and I sleep better."

Something hard and immovable passes over his face. Max wishes she hadn't said anything. 

David pauses, his jaw working like he's not entirely sure how to speak all of a sudden, and Max waits as the stiff breeze blows over them both. The squirrels and rabbits hop off the bench and scurry back underneath the foliage, full and out of sight.

"You were in the bathroom."

Max is so caught off guard that she can't bring herself to react, at first. Her tongue feels like it's swelling. 

"What?"

His nostrils flare, and the words are spat out onto the ground in front of her. "You were in there, when Ch- when  _she_  was shot. Murdered by that  _Prescott_  piece of shit." A vein threatens to burst on his temple. "They found you behind the stalls."

"I- yes, Mr. Madsen."

"Tell me what you saw."

She blinks, puzzled. "What I... saw? I saw... exactly what you said. I saw - I saw Chloe get shot."

"And Prescott?" David's fists are clenched hard at his sides. "What about him? Was he laughin'? Was he  _proud,_ huh? Did he say anything to you? To Chloe, when she was lyin' there on the goddamn floor?"

"No," Max says quickly, "No, he - he didn't see me. He didn't know I was in there."

"And what about that sick fucker Jefferson's trial, huh?" He sticks his finger right in her face. " _You_  need to testify."

"Mr. Madsen--"

"You saw, with your own eyes, you saw Nathan Prescott kill my wife's daughter,  _my stepdaughter_ , in cold blood in a school bathroom. You can't let his family protect his ass any longer. You need to testify against him, too."

Max feels heat prickle at the back of her neck, washing over her in a rush of anxiety. "I don't think Nathan is getting a trial. At least not yet. He's very sick."

" _Yeah_ , I heard." He snorts, angry. "They stuck him in the nuthouse." He's not even listening to her, just scowling at something above her head and in the distance, something she cannot see. "His family are payin' for his rehabilitation or some horseshit like that. He murders an innocent girl in broad daylight and he gets  _rehabilitation_."

Max looks down. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Madsen."

"Yeah," His laugh holds no humour. "Me too. The fucking system failed her. Only justice she can get now is to see that fucker rotting in a cell." He fixes his gaze on her, eyes blazing. "You need to call the cops and tell them that Nathan Prescott is sane and ready to stand trial for what he did."

"They took my statement already," Max mumbles, feeling way out of her depth here. "I can't change it. I saw - I saw what I saw."

David gives her a glowering stare that stabs her, right in the chest. "She was your friend, and you won't help put her killer behind bars. I see how it is, Max Caulfield."

It's too much. Like running around the same endless labyrinth of questions and cautious answers, prevented from telling the truth, the very thing that would fix all of this. Running until her legs give out, until she can barely breathe. 

How is this new beginning even worth it, if Max has to live like this? If no one else understands that this is what Chloe wanted.

That this is what she died for.

Max can't think of anything to say that won't piss him off, so she just turns away, and takes a step back, and looks towards the dormitory which now seems much more appealing than it did a moment ago. 

"Mr. Madsen, I really am so sorry for your loss," she tells him. Pause. An icy silence. "I-I should go. It's cold."

He doesn't react, or make much of an acknowledgement that he can even hear her. It's like Joyce all over again, Max realizes, with a crushing blow to her underbelly. If only David knew, if he knew everything, it could at least grant him some peace. To know that Chloe died for something, to know that she went willingly, in charge of her fate for the first time. If anyone deserved peace, it's David, and Max can't tell him. Can't. So, he must live the rest of his life with that kind of devastation weighing him down, holding him back, never letting him be free.

If she told him, even in vague words, words that made no sense to him now but perhaps would eventually, maybe that wouldn't be so bad. 

But she doesn't. She keeps her mouth shut, and hates herself for it.

Max ascends the front steps and turns to watch him go, jangling his keys in one hand, rambling off down the path looking for all the world like someone lost, helpless, and alone.

 

* * *

 

 

It feels like someone is driving a truck over Max's head, rolling the wheels over her skull. She drops her study notes with a groan, her head lolling backwards onto her pillow, eyes falling shut before she can stop them.

"That's it," she says heavily, "I can't study any more."

Warren gives her a wide-eyed glance that would be somewhat adorable if it weren't for the pounding headache throbbing in Max's brain. 

"It's only been two hours," he whines.

Max cracks open one eye, stunned. "How long do you normally study for?"

Warren looks away. "If I answered that, I'd lose the trait of everybody thinking my nerd-smart was effortless."

Max digs her shoe into his side and sits up, rubbing her face with both hands and yawning. It's five thirty or so, but feels so much later, the crisp November nights reeling in far earlier now, bringing clear night skies and deep-blue dawns. Even Warren looks tired, blinking slower than usual as he leafs through his pages and pages of neatly-written summaries and notes, highlighted and color-coded according to the level of importance. Same old Warren.

Eventually, he stuffs his books back into his battered-old backpack and settles back against the wall adjacent to Max's bed, his legs dangling off the end, whistling the theme song to the vibrant anime he's constantly telling her about.

It feels like old times, like the days before Max got her powers, when she lounged around her dorm doing homework that she actually cared about, when Mr. Jefferson was her hero and Chloe Price was just a ghost from her past, when she still felt like a teenager. Back before she felt as though she's aged a hundred years, lost her entire world just to gain it back and lose it all over again. Before she felt like she's never going to be normal again. 

Warren glances towards her night-stand. "Where are the books I gave you?"

Max swallows. "Uh, my bag. I'm still on the third one."

"Don't worry, no spoilers here," says Warren, holding up his hands, "Just checking in. It's so  _awesome_ that you're reading Baker."

She ignores the bristle of guilt. "So awesome."

"What are those?" Max follows his pointed finger, and pales at what she sees.

"Nothing."

"Birthday present for me?"

"No."

"Aw, come on, Mysterious Max! What's--"

"Chloe's stuff."

Warren falls silent. Somewhere in the hallway, Stella laughs, high-pitched. 

Warren's face has flooded beet-red. "Shit, sorry, I didn't mean to like..."

"It's okay, Warren." She looks over at the boxes, still crowded underneath her desk. "Her mom gave them to me. It's her clothes, old photos... and I don't really know what else."

"You haven't looked?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I... can't." She feels pathetic, like a child afraid of what's in her closet. "Sorry. I know that's stupid, but..."

"Max," His voice is kind, and his hand is reaching across to take hers. His fingers are clammy. "That's not stupid. Not at all."

She gets up and off the bed, ignoring the way Warren seems to shrink back when she drops his hand from hers. She stands awkwardly by her closet for a moment, and then, reaches out to grasp her shower supplies, signalling him that it's time to go.

He gets the message, standing up with his bag over one shoulder and shoving his hands into his pockets. He's still red, and purposely avoiding her eyes. 

"Thanks for the study help," Max offers, trying to sound cheerful. "Helps me to, uh, take my mind off things. You're a really great friend, Warren."

His smile curls but doesn't last very long. He pauses at the door after he opens it, hesitating right in the doorway.

"So are you," he says then. "And you're so brave, Max. I wanted you to know that."

She softens. "Thank you."

He gives her one last smile before he goes, closing the door behind him. 

She drops her shower stuff back onto the shelf and sinks back onto the bed, sighing at the quiet. She shouldn't treat him so coldly, especially when he's only trying to help, only trying to express whatever he's feeling the only way he knows how.

But it's not time for that talk yet, not when she can't even open a fucking box of old tattered jeans and a few dozen photographs. 

She calls her mom to prove to her that she's still at Blackwell, still coping, still attending all of her classes and not spending all day in bed. Seattle is kindly threatened at least twenty times, as is her parents actually coming out to visit. When she hangs up, she grabs her laptop and surfs on Facebook until the same old shit starts to repeat in on itself and Max is hit with the grating reality that life is still going on, and everyone is still oblivious. Daniel starts a group chat and is eagerly planning a Portland road trip for Warren's birthday in two weeks. Max is non-committal, and it's obvious that everyone is being careful not to scare her off completely.

After a while, curiosity comes. 

She closes all other tabs and slots a pillow in behind her back, her bottom lip held between her teeth. She doesn't know why she feels like she's being watched when she opens up Google, and types in a single name.

_Dean Prescott_

The first list of results is too broad, with pictures of Harvard professors and musicians and the occasional unrelated Facebook page. She recognizes none of the people that show up in the images section. She edits her search, typing  _Dean Prescott, Arcadia Bay_ into the search bar and, when she hits enter, the results flash before her eyes too fast for her to prepare.

It's definitely the same guy from the photograph. There's a handful of new pictures for her to access, most of them school-related, and the search results have brought up nothing but a long, exhaustive list of headlines, one after the other, the same kind of thing over and over again. They're all news stories, all from 2010. 

_Tragedy For Prescott Family_

_A Town Rocked: Shock As Eldest Prescott Dies_

_Outpouring Of Support For Prescotts'_

_"An Unspeakable Tragedy": Hundreds Attend Funeral Of Dean Prescott_

After scanning a select few of the news reports, Max learns four things about Dean Prescott. The first, he attended Blackwell up until his death, and was Captain of the Otters swim team. Second, he was seventeen when he died. Third, he was apparently "in line" for a prominent position in Sean Prescott's business. And lastly, he died from "natural causes", some kind of undiagnosed heart condition. 

He looks like Nathan, if Nathan were harder and broader. He looks happy in every photograph. Max feels a twisting sense of sadness on Nathan's behalf. 

When she'd been a kid, she'd never crossed paths with the Prescotts'. They were on one side of Arcadia and she had always been on the other; they were just a name, a name she didn't particularly care about, being a little kid. Her main interests had been photography and hanging out with Chloe. She doesn't remember Dean Prescott, but he seemed to be... genuine. If so many attended his funeral, if so many seemed sincerely affected by his death, he must have been different.

She closes the lid of her laptop and lies on her back, watching the ceiling until her eyes blur. 

She's surprised by how much sadness swirls within her for Nathan, and what he must have gone through. She's never allowed herself to think about him too much, but now she does, and finds herself struck by the idea that Nathan is much more than meets the eye. 

For the first time, she wants him to get better. Not just because of Chloe, not just because of everything she has lost, but because she truly wants to see him better. 

 

* * *

 

 

Officer Berry is perched at the counter when she walks into the Two Whales, and he lifts a hand in greeting when he sees her. Max smiles, but it's tight. Seeing him takes her back to last month, when he and his colleagues had burst through the door to arrest Nathan and, after hauling him out in cuffs, had found her sobbing silently on the other side of the stall. It's not a side that she wanted anyone to see.

Joyce is behind the counter, back at work and looking as though she'd much rather be anywhere else. The diner seems quieter, like the jukebox is slurred as it meets Max's ears. The air is still heavy with the warm scent of coffee, but it's not as comforting as it used to be. Joyce's face is distant when she turns back to the counter, tucking strands of hair behind her ears. She waves at Max, but can't seem to bring herself to smile.

"Miss Caulfield," Officer Berry says brightly. "Good morning."

"Morning, Officer," Max takes his hand to shake when he extends it to her. "How are you today?"

"Very good, thank you. Happy to see Joyce back with us." He lifts his mug of coffee in a salute of sorts towards Joyce, who offers him a pinched smile before she turns away. When he looks back at Max, his gaze is intense and probing. "How are you doing, Max? I've been worried."

"Fine."

"Fine?" He gives her this irritatingly concerned smirk. "Now, Max, you don't have to be so strong. It's only been a month."

She's been to the Two Whales long enough now to know how to signal Joyce without words. She holds up three fingers to ask for order number three, and Joyce nods, turning to write it down and pass it through the back hatch. Max looks at Officer Berry and forces her best smile.

"I'm getting by. That's all I can do, sir."

"I heard about Mark Jefferson's trial," He continues. "They're holding it in a few months time, 'sposed to be the trial of the decade, apparently."

Max nods, looking over at Joyce as if it will hurry up her order. She doesn't want to stand here and talk about this. It seems like all she does is talk about it and think about it. She just wants a break.

"My superiors called the hospital where they're holding Prescott," Berry goes on. "He's making progress, but not fast enough for him to get flayed alive by a jury." He clicks his tongue. "Not guilty, by reason of insanity. Can you believe it?"

Max gets the feeling that he doesn't really mind whether she answers or not, so she simply leans on the counter next to him as she waits for her order, waving at Joyce to let her know it's to-go. 

"At least the Rachel Amber case is solved," Berry says, taking a sip of his coffee. "Poor girl. Lured in by that monster, Jefferson. We found it all in his Dark Room, all the cold-hard evidence that we could ever need."

That gets Max's attention. "So, Jefferson is being charged with Rachel and Chloe's murders?"

Berry nods. "Bastard is still pinning both of 'em on Prescott. I guess we'll see how it all goes down when the trial comes. And, sane or not sane, Nathan Prescott needs to testify against Jefferson if he wants to keep his ass out of the fire."

"Nathan can testify?"

"If he wants to get off as free as he can, yeah. His only chance is to say what that family of his is sayin', that Jefferson manipulated him and whatever sickness he's got in his head. But," He sighs, "Who knows? The only thing I care about is getting Arcadia Bay back to the town it used to be."

"Order up!" comes the voice from behind the hatch, and slides a paper-wrapped toasted wrap towards Joyce, who brings it over to Max. 

Max takes it gratefully, and begins to reach for her purse.

Joyce holds up her hand. "No charge, Max. It's the least I can do, after all you've done for our family."

Max feels a wave of nausea.  _After all she's done_ , if only Joyce knew. "No, Joyce, please. Let me pay."

Joyce takes a step back away from Max's outstretched hand, resolute. "Honey, put your money away."

"That's awful kind of you, Joyce," Officer Berry smiles. "I'd take that offer, Max."

She feels pushed into a corner. She feels like a liar.

Her chest clenches tightly as she slips her money back into her purse, her heart sinking deep into her gut. 

"You have a good day," Joyce tells her, giving her the first real smile she seems to have mustered that day. "And you enjoy that sandwich."

Max hails the bus and sits in her usual seat, the sandwich warming her lap, her chest swirling with a thousand emotions that hit her with the force of hurling bricks. She doesn't deserve such kindness. She doesn't deserve to be treated like this. She doesn't deserved to be called brave, and she doesn't deserve sandwiches for free, and she doesn't like to have people looking at her like she's strong. She's not. She's the reason why all of these people's lives are so fucked-up and desolate now. It's all her fault. 

What would Joyce say, what would she _think_ , if she knew Max is bringing her food to the boy that killed her daughter?

 

* * *

 

 

Nathan is lying on his bed when she arrives, bouncing his leg up and down with agitation, staring at the ceiling. He's not alone. Nell looks uncharacteristically exasperated, her hands braced on the back of one of the chairs by the window, her mouth set in a firm, stern line.

"Excuse my French," she's saying, teeth gritted, "because I _know_  that you aren't going to give a rat's ass about what we ask you to do and what we don't, but it would really mean a lot to me, personally, if you went."

Nathan retorts, "No," in a bored tone of voice.

"Do I need to list off the benefits again?" Nell retorts. "This is _vital_ to your recovery. You can't keep pushing it -  _us_ \- away." She leans forward, trying to get him to look at her. "You'll see fantastic results. You'll feel better. And, if you stick to Dr. Perry's plan, you might even get out of here earlier. Don't you want that?"

"I'm not going." His voice is unmoved and unemotional.

"Nathan," Nell straightens, "As your ward nurse, I say this with nothing but affection," She raises her eyebrows at him, "You're _irritatingly stubborn_ and make my job a lot harder than it needs to be."

Nathan's expression flickers briefly with something almost close to pride. "Thanks."

Nell actually laughs, it dances out of her and fills the room. She glances towards the door and smiles when she spots Max, lingering in the doorway. 

"Max, hey," she says, "I was just trying to convince Chuckles here to actually attend one of his community groups."

Max walks forward, eyeing Nathan curiously. "Community groups?"

"We have them every day," Nell explains. "A morning group and an evening group. It's a chance for patients to sit together and make goals, talk about how they're finding their treatment programme, do exercises. And unfortunately, they're completely voluntary." She shoots Nathan a half-serious glare when she says this. "Nathan's been with us for weeks now, and he's yet to attend _one_."

"Bullshit," Nathan deadpans. 

Nell gasps in mock-offense. " _My_ group isn't. You'd love my group. My group is the bees-fucking-knees." 

"Bullshit," he repeats.

Nell rolls her eyes and points towards the corner. "You wound me. I'm going to sit in silence and do my reports, and maybe Max can talk some sense to you."

Max swears she hears him scoff, but when she double-takes he's sitting up with the same old glazed expression. Nell sits down cross-legged on the far side of the room and slips in some earphones, pressing the tip of her pen to a hefty stack of patient reports that seem to stretch on for days. Max makes a mental note to never complain about homework ever again.

He looks like the Nathan Prescott she's used to, that red jacket snug around his shoulders like armour. His eyes are stony when she hands him the food, and he turns to leave the bag on his pillow as Max sits down in one of the chairs, leaning over to pass him the wrap. 

It's nice, for some reason, to just sit here and not have to talk. To not have to think, or watch what she says. To just be with someone and not constantly be on edge. She looks down to Nathan's knuckles, and is filled with a swell of unexpected upset when she realizes his knuckles are bloodied again. It looks fresh.

Nathan catches her staring, and flexes his hand as he chews. 

"They put me in the quiet room again," he offers as way of explanation. 

"Why?"  


He shrugs, lifting one shoulder like it's enormous effort to do, and she figures that's all she's going to be getting out of him. 

She reaches down to her bag and pulls out the handful of photos she's brought along. Pictures of the animals on that gray, fresh morning, a few snaps of the lighthouse and its backdrop of scenery on a sunlit afternoon, the seagulls swirling above the dorm, a picture of the whale on top of the diner with the flashing, neon sign, lit up in the dark.

Nathan flicks through them, gaze suddenly focused and intensive. 

Max drums her fingers against her knee. "You don't have to put them up, I just thought..."

She trails off when he turns, dusting crumbs off his bed as he leans up on his knees and pins each picture, every single one, onto the wall. Max feels a glimmer of warmth that settles in her chest, and when he turns back, she's smiling at him. Already, they add something to the room, give it more personality, more light. 

"I'll bring more," she says. "Next week."

Nathan's face grows cloudy. "You can't come next week," he says.

Max is silent for a moment, before she realizes that what she's feeling is rolling disappointment. "I can't?"

He looks away. "My family is coming." 

"I can't come after?"

Another shrug. "Your funeral. Do whatever the fuck you want to do. I'm just warning you, all right? Whatever."

"Who's coming?"

"My parents, and my little brother."

"Not your sister?" Max asks.

Nathan shakes his head, and for a moment, looks annoyed. "She's in a rainforest somewhere."

The memory comes back, a rush of images and color. She remembers Nathan's room, and going through his computer, finding the e-mail from his sister. Before she even knows what she's saying, the words are already out. "Kristine, right?"

Nathan snaps his head up to stare at her, and Max almost,  _almost_ freaks out enough to use her rewind. But she made herself a promise, and she's sticking with the consequences.

"Yeah," he says, scowling, " _How_ did you know that?"

She shakes herself, putting it off as a casual thing, yet aware of how hot her face is getting. "Uh, Nell mentioned her name. A while ago."

Nathan doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't press the subject, and Max settles back into her seat with relief when the suspicion fades from his face and is replaced by a look of listlessness. 

Max laces her fingers together on her lap, regulating her breathing back to normal.

"How are you?" she asks him.

He shrugs. 

"Are you... enjoying the books?"

Another shrug. 

Max turns and looks out the window. It's dark already, the first few stars peeking out of the vast sky, the faint lights of Arcadia town winking back at her. When she turns back, Nathan moves his head quickly back to stare up at the ceiling. She wonders if he'd been staring at her. 

"Tell me something," he says suddenly, his voice flat. 

"Like what?"

"I don't know. What you usually talk about. Your classes, Seattle. Something."

She's astounded, to tell the truth. "I didn't think you listened to me."

Another shrug. He turns his head on his pillow and looks at her, eyes tired. And Max... Max understands. She's seen the expression on her own face enough, knows that state of mind when you just want someone else to talk, when you just want to take a break and clear your head. 

She thinks back over the week. Nothing about it has been particularly striking, and she'd quite like to leave it behind. So, she racks her brain, trying to think of something else, something to pass the time. 

He never tears his eyes from her as she tells him about her trip to the Grand Canyon last summer, his whole body placid as he listens. After a while, his eyes shut, and Max feels significantly strange talking about her dad's ill-fated plan to rent a family RV to Nathan Prescott, of all people, as he lies on his bed and seems to sink into the covers. She glances over at Nell, diligently working, bobbing her head along to her music. 

When she finishes talking, the quiet that settles over the room isn't the awkward, heavy blanket she'd imagined. It's oddly peaceful.

Nathan opens his eyes. She's gotten better at meeting his gaze for long stretches of silence.

He exhales. "Tell me something else."

"What?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

The question, and the way he harshly laughs out the words, leave her speechless for a moment. It should be rhetorical, maybe, but Nathan is staring at her like he's waiting for an answer. 

Max flounders. "I... what?"

"I said, who the fuck are you?" He props himself up on his elbows, and starts shaking his head. "I've been trying to remember you. Did I hit my head before I got here or some shit?"

"What are you talking about?"

"We weren't friends," Nathan says. "The only thing I remember about you, _Max Caulfield_ , is that you were the new girl and we never had one fucking conversation. But from the week I got here, you've been here too." He tilts his head. "I'm asking you  _why_."

She can't find the words to answer him. At her silence, he starts to look angry. It seems to shake through him.

"If this is some kind of community service-outreach bullshit, you can fuck off right now."

"It's not," she says. 

"So what the fuck _is_ it? Why do you keep coming back?" His face has gone flush. 

"Because," she breathes, "I want to." 

He doesn't know what to make of that, and it's like that makes him even more frustrated. He pushes himself up onto his knees and sits back against the wall, scrubbing a hand through his hair and scowling at the floor. His right hand shakes. Max stays quiet with him, until the last of his irritation seems to burn out like a candle on the wick, fizzling out. When it's gone, his posture is slouched, like all of his energy's been drained right out of him. 

It even looks tiresome for him to flick his eyes back to her. 

"You don't have to come here."

"I want to," Max repeats, firmer this time, but her voice still quiet. 

"I don't fucking understand you."

She smiles. "I know."

The squeak of Nell's shoes echoes throughout the room as she stands, pulling out her earphones and gathering up her files with a sleepy expression. 

"Good talk?" she asks. 

Max nods, still smiling, and when she stands up, Nathan is staring at her with the faintest smirk on his face.

She leaves him with an awkward half-wave, and when he nods back, instead of just staring at the wall, she views it as progress.

She's feeling good on the bus home, watching the stars come out one by one as it chugs down the hill back to town. She almost doesn't notice the buzzing of her pocket. Slipping her hand inside, she pulls out her phone and frowns for a second at the message flashing on-screen, because it just doesn't feel real.

But it is. 

The number is still on her phone from timelines past. 

Frank Bowers. 

Max's stomach somersaults, and not pleasantly. 

_ Max Caulfield,  _ it reads.  _We need to talk._

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to update this earlier but unexpectedly found myself, as always, buried under college work to the point where I just lay on the floor for a while and avoided all my responsibilities. No, seriously. So THANK YOU guys so much for your patience!! And thank you for your wonderful, motivating and much appreciated feedback - you'll never know how much it means. <3 It got me off the floor, for one thing. ;) 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this one. I'll see you again very soon! And happy birthday Warren Graham! :D

 

The junkyard is the same.

Mountains of rust and decay, high spirals of decrepit garbage, but it is the old toys that make her the saddest. A raggedy, one-eyed teddy bear peers out at Max from the bottom of one of the piles as she passes. She picks her way carefully through the broken glass of dozens of smashed beer bottles, wrinkles her nose at the syringes, has to hug her arms tight around herself when the morning wind picks up, too eager and so, so cold. 

It's the same, but it's different. Such is the way everything in her life is now. 

Chloe's touch is everywhere, but her presence is glaringly absent, and the place feels foreign and strange. It feels now like a place that Max used to play as a child, but then grew up and forgot about. It feels like coming back to  _something_ , rather than somewhere. It presses heavy in at her heart, and has her looking up at the slate of steel-colored sky. 

She makes her way through the beat-up cars and ramshackle household appliances, until she reaches the clearing and has to swallow back the sigh that tries to escape her at the sight of the little clubhouse, Chloe's beloved secret lair, rising up to greet her. Already, she can feel all of the energy being drained out of her in just seconds. So many memories with this place, so much pain. 

They dug up Rachel not too far away, when Nathan told them everything. The spot is engraved into Max's brain, and she wakes up with the image burning in her mind every day. She's seen the newspapers, and knows now that all that remains is a deep hole they haven't bothered to cover over yet. It's all so eerie. 

Max looks around for the doe, but it's no where to be found. 

Inside, the little clubhouse is a small branch of comfort in a forest of twisted-nostalgia. Max runs her hands over the words etched and scrawled across the walls, traces Chloe's writing like doing so will grant her the feel of Chloe's fingers underneath. The wall is cold and damp, and offers nothing but memories that fizzle and crack in her mind like a spinning top. Outside, the train whooshes by in a burst of rhythmic sounds and Max has to shut her eyes. 

She sits down in the small chair by the window. It's not long before she has company. 

"Max Caulfield." It's not a question.

He is also the same, but different, broad and rumpled in his worn jacket and jeans, and the almost permanent frown that he seems to have been born with. But the difference is all in his eyes. They're bloodshot, and his face is lined with sleep like he's just woken up. She wonders whether he still has the knife on him. 

Max is afraid, but not very.

He leans against the wall by the entrance and stares at her like she might disappear. "The girl in the bathroom," he says. 

Max doesn't know what to say, so she just nods. 

"Read all about you," he goes on, his voice low and gravelly. "School hero. Made it through a  _tragic event_ ," he uses air quotes to convey the latter. "Saw a girl get shot in cold-blood and lived to tell the tale."

It's taunting, twisted, and sad. Max looks across the room to where Rachel's old make-up sits, crusted by now and useless. 

"How did you get my number?" she asks him.

"Called Blackwell," Frank replies simply, looking pleased with himself. "Pretended that I was some charity hotshot who was interested in nominating you for a bravery award. They ate it up."

He meets her eye from where he stands, and his gaze is too intrusive, too searching. She looks away first, her stomach tightening involuntarily. Now is just one more instance in which Max wishes Chloe is here with her. 

"What do you want?" she says.

He braces his hands on the chair in front of him, leaning forward. "Answers."

"I don't think I can tell you anything that the newspapers can't."

"Fuck that. I've read 'em all, and I know you were friends with Chloe." There is an edge of hysterical desperation to his voice when he adds, "So, you obviously knew Rachel Amber, too."

"No, I didn't." For once, she isn't lying. It's a strange feeling. "I was friends with Chloe five years ago. I - I didn't know the girl in the bathroom was her, until after."

Frank's face falls. He hadn't expected that.

Guilt -  _genuine_ guilt, fills Max to the brim as she watches the confusion take him over, scrawl itself harshly across his face. He scrunches his eyes together and his hands tighten on the chair.

"I thought - maybe if you'd known her, you would've known about her and this Jefferson motherfucker," he growls out. "I thought you could give me some fucking answers. Known something I didn't, or talked to Rachel about any of this. Because I don't understand a thing. Nothin', about any of this."

"I didn't know," Max says. "I just... thought Jefferson was a great teacher. In the beginning. I never expected this."

"And Prescott, that  _sick fucking punk_ ," he snaps. "He was in league with that other psychopath. The two of 'em, doing that messed up shit, and I didn't know. And I was his fuckin' supplier, that was  _me_. I thought those drugs were for Prescott, I mean, jesus christ. Kid was off the rails. I thought he was trying to get his head right." 

Max fishes for words that aren't there. "Did the police contact you?"

"No. No evidence to connect me, but it's all there if they looked hard enough." Max instantly thinks about his account book, and figures that he is, too. "I followed the story though. Rachel, he - Prescott said Jefferson killed her, and then Jefferson said it was Prescott. I don't have any fuckin' clue who done it, but I'll rip both their spines out their throats. They were both involved somehow." His knuckles bloom ivory. "Do you know where Prescott is now?" 

Max swallows. "I... I don't know. His parents committed him to a hospital. I think... a couple of states away."

Frank's face flashes with anger. "He better hope I never get my fuckin' hands on him.  _Jesus_ ," he rubs his hands over his face roughly. "This is - this isn't real."

"I know that you probably won't believe this," Max starts, "but I hope that you can at least try to. The only thing I know is that what happened to Rachel, to Chloe..." She shakes her head. "There was nothing we could do."

He doesn't answer her, just shoves his hands into his pockets and bites down hard on his lip like he's trying hard not to scream. Outside, another train trundles by, heavy with limber and coughing out smoke. 

"You and Chloe," Frank says, "You were friends?"

"Best friends. But then I moved."

"I thought Rachel was her best friend."

That stings a little. "We both were." She glances down at her shoes, the sides caked in dried mud. "I didn't know Rachel, but sometimes I feel like I did."

Frank rubs his chin. "She was - we were," He hesitates. "We were a thing. Together, I mean."

Max almost says  _I know_ , but luckily catches herself in time. She tries to merge the right amount of surprise on her face. 

"I know she was young, but shit, I loved her. And she loved me. But I treated her like crap, I can't deny that."

"Why?"

"I don't fuckin' know. Some self-destructive bullshit. Always thought she was gonna leave me, I guess I figured I'd make the impact as gentle as I could." He sniffs. "Never thought she'd leave me like this, though. Fuck." He sighs. "Rachel."

Max wants to tell him how much Rachel loved him, how sad she would be to see him so broken, but she can't. 

"And Chloe?" Frank's laugh is brittle. "That girl was an avalanche of trouble, and, fuck I'm sorry, but maybe she had it comin' to her. But still, she didn't deserve it."

"No," Max says. "She didn't."

There's a strange sort of pause, then, when the junkyard seems to grow quiet and the clubhouse fills with a little more sunlight. Frank is looking at the wall, at Rachel's signature there. He visibly swallows, and turns back to her.

"You really can't tell me anything, huh?"

"Just that I'm sorry. Really."

He rubs the back of his head, and in that moment, he looks the most lost that she has ever seen him. 

"Stay out of trouble," he warns, and it comes out more awkward than he meant it. "So much shit has happened, the last thing we need is another girl getting hurt."

"I'll do my best," she tries to smile, but he ignores it. 

He leaves without saying goodbye, just inhales slow, and stalks across the tracks with his head low.

 

* * *

 

 

Max is an hour late to Warren's birthday dinner. She shuffles through the door, red-faced and apologetic, and doesn't miss the sad concern peering out behind everyone's polite smiles as she sits down next to Warren. 

"I'm so sorry," she whispers to him, "I was in my dorm and getting ready, and, I don't know, I must have dozed off because then it was--"

"Max, no worries," Warren's smile is loose and breezy, and she is truly grateful for the warmth of his hand on hers. "It's cool. I'm glad you're here now." 

His birthday dinner is more of a birthday lunch, because he has a mountain of work piling up and needs the evening to do it. The restaurant is fancy enough to feel special but chilled-out enough that no one feels out of place. It's busy, but they have their own big table away from most of the crowd, with little candles lighting and tiny specks of gold glitter glimmering on the tablecloth. Everyone looks nice, the girls in dresses or expensive jeans and the guys in shirts and ties.

Max only owns two dresses. Her funeral dress, which she absolutely was not going to wear to this, and the one that she did end up wearing - a pretty burgundy cotton dress that fit her perfectly three years ago but is now a little on the short side, the hem brushing a couple more inches than she's comfortable with above her knee. She had no idea what to do with her hair, so just left it as it always is, and she'd rushed her make-up to the point that she probably looks like a panda right about now. She feels raggedy, surrounded by girls like Dana in a gorgeous, sparkly top and designer jeans, and Kate, who looks simple but effortlessly elegant in an immaculate snow-white dress. 

She feels an extra slap of guilt when she realizes they've all been waiting for her to arrive before they ordered, and seem to be on their second round of drinks. Warren orders Max's Coke for her and smiles knowingly when the waitress writes down her order for Cajun chicken and fries. It's her go-to meal in any restaurant, and he knows her so well. 

Zach is apparently back with Juliet, and he's a surprising but weirdly settled addition to the group. He's got his arm around Juliet, and is heavily engrossed in an animated conversation about rock bands and movies with Justin and Alyssa. Kate is shy but smiling between Dana and Trevor, Stella is making swans out of everybody's napkins, and Brooke sits rather silently on Warren's other side, picking at her napkin with painted nails that look as though she spent a lot of time on them. 

"Oh, I almost forgot," Max turns for her purse and digs out Warren's card, and a small but heavy wrapped parcel. 

His eyes light up, and the smile that comes to his face does wonders to convince her that he isn't really mad that she was late. "Max, you didn't have to."

"I wanted to." She swears she  _hears_  Brooke roll her eyes. 

Warren opens the card first, and laughs delightedly at the tickets to the next drive-through showing of Robocop that spill out of it and onto his lap. "No way!"

"That's our rain check," Max tells him, smiling. "Only if you want to, of course. I haven't been the greatest friend lately."

Warren shoots her a confused glance. "You're crazy. You've been as awesome as always, and I am so  _into_  this." He reads the awkward yet well-meaning words of happy birthday that she's written on the card, a weird smile on his face, and shakes his head as his hands go to tear off the wrapping paper. "Seriously, this is too much."

Max is surprised by the laugh that shoots out of her at Warren's reaction to his present: a comprehensive, all-inclusive and special edition box-set of only the best science fiction titles ever made, with everything from cult classics to box-office blockbusters. She'd found it on a back shelf of Arcadia's DVDs store, and it had been so cheap and so ridiculously  _Warren_ that she'd bought it immediately. 

Warren is shaking his head like he's holding solid gold. "Too much," he says. "Max, this is  _so awesome_!"

He grabs her and doesn't let go until her lungs are burning, and over his shoulder Max has to make do with several moments of Brooke glaring at the table and then not-so-subtly at her, before he pulls away and jitters his legs underneath the table with all of the excitement of a three-year-old child on Christmas Day.

"I am going to faint," Warren announces. "I am having  _the_  greatest birthday in the world."

He's extra jovial when the food arrives, delicious smells filling the air and wafting through the restaurant. Max finds herself enjoying it all, the feeling of being back with friends, of actually doing something with her day other than lying in bed and trying to gather the courage to open a pair of cardboard boxes. Her stomach dips with a warmth that she hasn't felt in a long time. 

When dessert comes, Warren insists on splitting his ice-cream sundae with her, while Max is just relieved they don't have to share a spoon. Max feels full and happy, and settles back in her seat to observe everyone laughing, talking, moving on. For the past month, she's felt like she's been caught in a rushing current, unable to move while everything and everyone flies by her, never to return. That has, slowly, begun to ebb away. She still feels a horrible hollowness in the quiet, cold of night, and those early hours of the morning when she wakes and the memories of what has been and what will now always be hit her again, as fresh as the very first time. But, despite all of that, she's starting to feel... better than devastated. That has to count for something.

Across the table, Juliet flashes her a smile.

"Max, I've been meaning to ask you, I would seriously  _love_ to write a piece on you for the Totem next month."

Max's eyebrows raise. "On me? Why?"

" _Why?_  Um, because you survived literally the scariest thing that's ever happened in Blackwell. You survived, period." 

"Oh, Juliet--"

"You went through such a terrible experience, and you're so strong. People are in awe of you. I know they'd really love to hear your story."

"There's no--"

"I think it'd be a really eye-opening piece. God, it would definitely make people sit up and think about the teachers we employ in our schools. I bet--"

"Juliet," Max says quickly, "I'm not worth writing anything on.  _Really_. Thank you, though."

Juliet's disappointment ghosts across her face. "But you're so brave, Max. You're a  _hero_."

Max resists the bubbling urge to laugh. "No, I'm not. I was just in a bathroom at the wrong time. It could've happened to anybody."

"But it happened to you."

Max shrugs. "I could have died, too."

Juliet falls quiet, but the smile she sends Max is optimistic and kind. "I won't push you, then. But seriously, I think it would be such an amazing article."

"And I'm flattered, but..."

Juliet waves her hand. "No worries. I'll still be here, though, if you change your mind."

Max knows that Juliet isn't the local Arcadia press. She isn't a sneering blogger behind a laptop. She's a gifted writer, an honest one, totally capable of stirring hearts as well as minds, and any article she'd write on Max wouldn't be a flop. But the thought of being written about in general, the thought of being praised and labelled and celebrated as something that she's not, she can't do it. Won't do it. Juliet will write her piece on climate change or Gucci's new line, and Max can try to sleep better at night. 

After dessert, the staff burst out of the kitchen with a generous sponge cake for Warren and gather around the table to sing at him as he sits, flushed and squirming but loving every second. Max applauds with the rest of them, and snaps a sweet photo of Warren blowing out his candles, which she tucks carefully between the pages of her diary. 

They order a last round of drinks, and as they sip, stuffed and warm, Brooke taps her glass with a spoon, old-fashioned style, to get everyone's attention. 

"Before I forget," she says, "study group. Warren and I got that study room in the library booked solid for every Wednesday from next week. We're all in, right?"

"Yes," Kate says, "A study group is exactly what I need this year."

The consensus agrees, and Max is left with a rising swell of  _Shit._

"Um, what time on Wednesdays?"

Brooke frowns at her, like there's no way Max could be busy. "Four to six. It was the only time we could get."

"Uh, I'm sorry to be this person, but," Max grimaces, "Is there any way we could do it on another day?"

"I have cello," Alyssa pipes up, "and Book Club."

"Football," Zach says.

"Church meetings," Kate says, and then, with an undeniable look of awkwardness, "And uh, therapy."

Dana has cheerleading and piano, Stella is caught up in three part-time jobs, Justin and Trevor have skate meets and some video game club, Juliet is consumed by the Totem, and Brooke and Warren racket off about fifteen clubs and after-school activities each. 

Stella is apologetic. "The reason we picked that time is because it was the only time everybody was available." 

"Okay, I get it, it doesn't suit." Max feels the eyes of them all fixed on her and stares at the tablecloth. "I can come at five, if that's okay."

Warren tilts his head. "How come? Busy?"

Max makes a non-committal noise. Kate is staring at her, her eyebrows knitted in a frown of suspicion. Max isn't technically lying, but she feels like a liar, and it gnaws at her. 

She can't tell them where she goes. They'd never understand, and trying to make them understand would be like banging her head against the wall. 

When the conversation resumes at the table, back to topics like school and classmates and Arcadia's upcoming events, Warren nudges her with his knee.

"Where do you go?" he asks her. 

"What?"

"Every Wednesday at four."

"I'm just... busy."

Warren is unconvinced, but he's not pushy about it. "Today's Wednesday, and it's almost four. Are you going today?"

"Going where?"

"Wherever you go, Mysterious Max."

Max rolls her eyes. She doesn't answer him, just drains the last of her drink and avoids eye contact with absolutely everybody until the bill is split evenly, they're all outside in the cool evening air, and Max says her goodbyes before ducking around the corner and sprinting so that she can reach the bus in time.

She actually checks over her shoulder to make sure she isn't followed.

 

* * *

 

 

"Max, hey," Nell is behind the ward's counter, writing what looks like activity schedules out on wide, A3 paper in permanent marker. "You look so pretty. Night out after this?"

Max glances down at her pale, freckled legs and the almost hysterical plainness of the dress and wonders, seriously, if Nell is kidding. "It's my friend's birthday," she tells her. "We had a nice lunch." 

"Sweet. Bring me anything?"

Max laughs. "Sorry, it was all so delicious I had nothing left." 

She did, however, sneak a sizeable piece of Warren's birthday cake into a napkin when the table wasn't looking.

She leans her hand on the counter. "I meant to ask last week, is he doing okay? You know... with his treatment. I don't really know much about it."

Nell's expression is hopeful. "Well, he's eating better these days, and we put him on some new meds two weeks ago to help him sleep, and they've really worked wonders. He still doesn't talk to anybody, except when he's, uh, you know, yelling at them." Her mouth curves into a smile. "Though I'm not sure if him being so crabby is a side-effect of something or just... him."

"It's him," Max says quickly, and Nell laughs.

"So you  _did_  know him before?"

"A little. Not much. It was kind of... a distant thing. I knew about him."

Nell nods. "Well, regardless, I'm glad you're here. He's always better on Wednesdays."

Max snorts. "That's not because of me."

Nell gives her an irksome waggle of her eyebrows before she points at something behind Max.

"He must just stare at you for no reason, then."

Max turns, and sure enough, Nathan is sitting at the table by the window, the place where he had first spoken to her, and his eyes are on her like if he moves them, she might disappear. 

Max wanders over, and instantly, Nathan's eyes drop to her legs. He seems tense, shoulders rounded as though on edge, waiting for a fight. Max flushes, and watches the movement, pulling awkwardly at the hem of her dress as she sits. 

"Sorry, I know I'm a little overdressed," she says, a breathy laugh escaping her throat. 

Nathan's eyes snap up to her face and he tilts his head, saying nothing. He was reading before she came. He's on the fourth book, already a good few chapters in. 

Max passes him the wrapped piece of cake across the table. His fingers are dry and cold as they brush against hers, and linger a little too long before she pulls back, tucking her hair behind her ear. 

"Where's your family?"

Nathan breaks off a piece and pops in his mouth, frowning as he chews then swallows.

"My parents cancelled."

"Oh," says Max. "Sorry."

Nathan shakes his head. "Fuck 'em."

He has a red blotch on his neck like he's been picking at the skin there, and he's a bit scratchy around the chin. He's also pale, but relatively all right, solid in his jacket with movements that are nothing but normal again, neither too sluggish nor too jerky. He lifts one finger and begins to pick carefully at a chip in the wood of the table.

After a while, he says, "Tell me something."

She talks for ten minutes about the time she and Chloe attempted to camp out in her backyard and got scared by a raccoon, only because it's been on her mind a lot recently. She substitutes 'Chloe' for 'my friend', but otherwise keeps everything the same. The conversation is as one-sided as ever, but her words flow easily, and he seems to breathe them in.

She used to feel awkward, and nervous, maybe even a little afraid. Now, she knows they are used to each other. It's the way Nathan leans forward now rather than backwards, how he listens not with a frown, but with a blank expression of quiet comfort. How he looks at her and holds her gaze, how he nods sometimes as if to convince her is really is listening. 

By now, Max has learned how to read him, how to study the planes of his face and the posture of his frame, how to combine everything she sees in order to decide whether or not it's a good day, or a bad day. 

Today's a good day. 

She finishes her story, just in time for the doors to open behind her and for a little kid to join them. 

Max sits back, startled. 

The kid drops a backpack and pulls himself up onto the spare chair, and Max wonders for one moment if he's got the wrong table, or he's lost somehow, the son of a doctor or maybe even another patient. But then Nathan looks over at him, and there's something almost gentle in the way he watches, a recognizing familiarity that Max knows means this boy is family. 

The kid is quite young, sandwiched in that ambiguous land of eight to eleven, and he is dressed in the haughtiest school uniform that Max has ever seen. Black and red, immaculately cut, with the school crest stamped like a brand on the breast. An elegant Latin motto is sewn underneath. The boy looks like Nathan, but not obviously, it's more of a soft reflection than a stark similarity, like water rippling on the surface and reflecting just blurred colors. His face is boyish and gentle, his eyes large and forest-green, and on his head sits a neatly combed mop of short, caramel-colored hair that dissolves into curls the closer it gets to his high forehead.

Nathan apparently feels for Max, floundering in her confusion and surprise, because he gestures vaguely in the kid's direction and catches her eye. 

"My parents cancelled," he says. "My brother never cancels."

Max looks down at the kid, baffled. "Did you take the bus?"

Nathan's brother shakes his head, hair flopping. "The nanny drove me. She's knitting in the waiting room."

"...Oh." Max almost laughs.  _Of course, a nanny._

Nathan reaches over and gives the kid a poke in the ribs. The boy looks over at Max then, grinning with rather adorable gaps in his teeth, and holds out a small, freckle-peppered hand. 

"Harry Prescott," he says, "Um, Junior."

Max giggles when she shakes his hand, she can't help it. "Max Caulfield."

Harry's eyes flick up and down. "Who are you?"

"I'm, um, Nathan's friend."

He nods, and then twists around in his chair to reach down and pull a gorgeous, leather-brown sketchbook from his bag. It's stamped with another crest, but not the school one, a family coat of arms. 

"Do you like art?" Harry asks her. 

"Why yes, I do." 

Harry nods again, eagerly, and drops an overflowing pencil case onto the table. Even that's leather. "I won an art award last year," he remarks. It's not bragging, he says it affably, casually, like it's something he's done a thousand times. 

Across the table, Nathan rolls his eyes. 

Max reaches a hand out slow for the sketchpad. She puts on her best fancy voice, and asks, "May I see your artwork, young sir?" 

He grins. "Okay."

She expects rainbows that stretch across the whole of the page, drawings of dogs and cats and little houses with flower beds of yellow, blue, purple. Maybe a big yellow sun, or a bright-canary beach with sandcastles and beige-and-blue boats dotted on a long, blue line of Crayola. Typical stuff, the kinds of things that she and Chloe drew at that age. Paintings of pirates and sunsets and balloons. 

Harry's sketchbook isn't like that.

Max's heart seizes up. She turns the smooth, dry pages, one after the other, and finds intricate sketches of a log cabin, nestled in a thick, perfectly shaded pine forest. She finds several pages of unbelievably accurate eyes, faces, hands, so realistic that she can trace every single vein and read the palms like scripture. He goes from phenomenal pencil sketches of buildings, low-lit streets and body parts to the bright, waxy euphoria of oil crayon, for which he uses to create great portraits of people who he either knows in real life, or dreams up in bursts of color in his head. An old woman with a soft cloud of red hair smiles at Max and appears to lift right off the page, her eyes bottomless skies of blue, every crease on her face a story. 

"This is _amazing_ ," she breathes, unable to stop turning the pages, unable to stop gazing at every beautiful piece she comes upon. She shakes her head in Harry's direction. "You really did all of this?"

He shrugs. 

Max turns to Nathan, but he's looking away, head tilted and watching the rubber floor, his arms crossed over his chest.

"You're so talented," she tells Harry, and he gives her a sweet little smile.

"I have art homework," he says then, and pulls the sketchpad back to him. Max leans in and watches in awe as he picks up a pencil and begins to scratch graceful, thin lines onto the page. 

"Where do you go to school?" 

"Portland." The lines are starting to take shape. They slope down in parallel lines, and curve in. "St. Benedict's." 

Max knows it, or rather, knows of it. It's a boarding school, and one of the biggest schools for gifted kids, not just in Oregon, but in the whole country. She's seen the glossy brochures with the photographs of boys sitting in neat, little rows in ornate classrooms, riding horses and proudly standing at polished podiums like tiny politicians. If there was a kind of Harvard equivalent for kids, it'd probably be St. Benedict's. 

"Do you like it there?"

Harry shrugs again. He sticks a finger in his mouth and uses it to smudge the lines on the page. Max leans on her hand and watches him work. 

"You'll probably go to Blackwell, when you're older," says Max conversationally. "They'd love to have such a talented artist like you."

"My dad says I'm not allowed to go to Blackwell," Harry replies. 

Max frowns. "Why not?"

Harry doesn't even blink. "He said they made Nathan sick."

Suddenly, Nathan gets up, and Max feels a hot rush of panic that he's angry again, that he's going to say something or do something that she can't help him with. But to her surprise, and relief, he just walks across the ward to the vending machine by the office, and fishes in the pocket of his jacket for change. 

Harry speaks while Max's eyes are still fixed on Nathan's back.

"Dad said that Nate's in here because he's sick," Harry goes on. "And that he has to stay in here until he gets better." When Max turns back around to face him, he's looking at her curiously. "Is it like when I'm sick? Like when I have a stomach ache and the teachers make me go to the infirmary?"

Something sad and heavy sinks in Max's stomach. She hesitates, and replies, "It's... kind of like that, yeah."

Harry has drawn the thin outline of a crow. He turns his pencil on its side and begins to shade in the wing, every single feather visible in the lines he makes. Across the room, Nell is leaning across the counter, talking to Nathan quietly as he stands, hands in his pockets, waiting for the vending machine to drop his stuff. 

"I asked Dad if Nate will be able to come home for Christmas, but he said he's not sure. He said I have to get all good grades, or else Nathan won't come home."

Nathan turns his head and says something to Nell that makes her roll her eyes, smiling, and sit back down in her chair. He bends and slips his hand into the tray of the machine. 

"My dad hates coming here. He yelled at Nate last week because he asked him to come. He doesn't like me coming, either. He says it's not a place for kids. I don't know  _why_ , though."

Nathan slouches back to them and returns to his seat. He drops a bag of chips in front of Harry, who looks up from his sketchpad and frowns at it.

"Mom said I'm not allowed to--"

Nathan cuts him off. "You're nine years old. Eat the fuckin' Cheetos."

Max goes still at the curse, but Harry doesn't even flinch. She wonders if he's used to it. He must be.

He reaches for the bag with a sigh and pulls them open. He insists on sharing them with Max. His page blots orange where his fingers accidentally press on the paper. Nathan slouches in his seat and says nothing. 

Eventually, Harry finishes the most beautiful sketch of a crow that Max has ever seen. It's long-beaked, and its beady, black eyes are so alive and tactile, she feels she could just reach out and brush against those feathers, feel the tiny bones underneath. Harry slides her the pad when he finishes it, signing his name in loopy letters and dating it underneath. 

"Amazing job, Little da Vinci," she teases, and he laughs. "You're going to get an A for sure."

She turns the page, just because she really can't get enough of this kid's art. She finds a portrait of a head and shoulders, done in bright, smooth oil pastel, of a boy with a broken stare. 

It's Nathan. The likeness is unbelievable, but he still seems... different. The red lips are smiling, and eyes that shimmer like blue lightning pierce the paper and stare far, far out, an expression of peace and sanguinity that stirs her deeply. Max can't imagine Nathan ever looked this carefree in his life, but at the same time, who's to say that he will never look like that? The portrait seems like a hopeful suggestion on Harry's part, a colorful _Maybe someday_ , and Max is stunned by the well of emotion she feels from looking at it. 

Max pushes the pad across the table, her lips parted. "Nathan, have you seen this? It's... it's amazing."

Nathan's eyes drop down to look at it, but his hands stay in his pockets. His face doesn't change. 

"You should stick that up on your wall," Max urges.

Harry yawns, midway through packing up his things. "Aw, Nate doesn't like any of my stuff."

Nathan frowns over at him then, and there's something defiant in it. He sits up and then tears the page right out of the sketchbook, placing it on the table and handing Harry back his pad. 

"I'll put it up," he says. 

Harry's smiling. He slips off the chair, hoisting his bag onto his back. "I have to go, or else Nanny Cassandra will get mad."

He waves at Max, grinning toothily, and just before he goes, he throws his skinny little arms around Nathan's neck. Nathan doesn't move, hands in his pockets, face blank, but he does lean into it. Max smiles.

She's smiling as Harry leaves, and she's smiling when she looks back at Nathan.

"He's so nice," she says. "And, wowser, his  _art_? Does he know how good he is?"

Nathan looks away. "Child prodigy," he answers. His mouth curves, but not in a smile. "My father's legacy can rest easy."

They've never talked about it, simply don't talk about it, and Max has never known how to broach the subject. But she figures this is as good a time as any. She nibbles on her lip and asks him, "Does Harry... _want_ to be a legacy? He's just a kid."

"It's not about what he wants," Nathan says sharply. "My father doesn't give a shit. If you're a Prescott, your future is planned out for you. Harry's gonna be my dad's pet, whether he likes it or not."

"That's... sad."

Nathan snorts. "Yeah, well, it's not like there's anyone else." 

"What do you mean?"

Nathan shifts, agitated. His voice comes out unsteady and harsh. "My dad's got a kid in the ground, a kid who basically ran away, and a kid in this fuckin' hellhole. Harry doesn't have a choice." His eyes flash angrily. "Whatever. I don't want to talk about this."

"Maybe you should."

"Fuck off," Nathan snaps, loud enough that he makes himself wince. But then there is a flicker of apology behind his eyes, an apology Max sees even though he tries to hide it from her. "I don't need you to act like one of the counsellors in here, all right?"

Max says, "Okay," and waits.

Nathan fidgets uncomfortably. He takes his hands out of his pockets and crosses his arms on the table, sitting up. His right hand shakes.

"Jesus Christ," he scowls, "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like - jesus, like I just hit you or something. I'm - I'm _sorry_ , all right?"

"It's okay."

"It's just this place."

"I know."

 "And I hate him seeing me like this," Nathan adds, looking over at Harry's empty seat. "And he keeps acting like I'm coming home. He doesn't know - He doesn't know what I did."

Max smiles gently, and it makes him look at her. His eyes blaze.

"You will go home," she says. "Someday."

Nathan sits back, scraping a hand over his face and staring at her, eyes hard. "What if I don't want to?" he says. "What if I don't even know what the fuck home is anymore?"

Max pauses. "Then I guess you have to go and find a new one."

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy December!! I hope that this chapter finds everybody well. I want to thank all you beauties again for the tremendous, and honestly unreal, responses I get to every instalment. I can't put into words how grateful I am. It's such fun to write this, so to have that support means the whole entire universe, no joke! 
> 
> This chapter focuses a little bit more on the Prescott family as a dynasty, of sorts, because that was an element of the game that I always wished had been explored in more detail. I can't WAIT to hear your thoughts, and I hope you like this one! And one million thank yous to my extraordinary, unbelievably helpful beta Kittiara for fixing this chapter up and making it so much better than it was before. :D 
> 
> Until next time. See you all very soon! ♥

 

Close to the last days of November, when the mornings are so dark and dismal that it still feels like the middle of the night, Max wakes up to the news that the Prescott Estate has been burgled and vandalised. 

Bleary-eyed and still half asleep, she drags her laptop across the blankets and sits up against the pillows, scrolling through local news websites as she adjusts to the gray early light. The story across every online journal and newspaper is more or less the same. Around 2AM, a group of masked men broke into the estate's main house while the Prescotts were out, and proceeded to steal numerous family heirlooms and a copious amount of money from Sean Prescott's office – and then, before leaving the premises in a van, vandalised and thrashed the rooms. 

Max flicks through photographs of such rooms, endless and beautiful, all littered with broken furnishings and smashed glass. Sean Prescott's office suffered the worst of the damage, with his priceless looking desk turned on its side and spilling out papers, envelopes, and stacks of laminated sheets onto the carpet. It's Max's first ever look at the Prescott Estate and it's pretty much exactly what she had pictured: enormous, lavish, and hollow. It reminds her of a hotel or a museum rather than a family home. There is nothing familial or warm about it. 

Behind Sean's desk, a contemptuous and glossy family portrait hangs on its side, the only sign that a real life family even lives there. Someone, one of the burglars, has taken a knife and slashed the faces, almost cutting the whole picture out of the frame. It's an unsettling sight, and one that stays with Max after she gets up, dresses, and goes to class. Photography does nothing to soothe the strange bubbling of anxiety that cramps up her stomach. 

It didn't matter how much Sean Prescott had denied knowledge of Jefferson using his bunker, and it didn't matter how sick Nathan was portrayed to be. The Prescott's had broken the once untouchable line that separated them and Arcadia Bay, and now, the town seems to be fighting back. This will be just one attempt to oust them from their invisible throne, Max is certain. She's honestly a little surprised it took this long to occur. 

In chemistry, she is distracted and distant; Ms. Grant pulls her aside after class and is too kind, too supportive, wanting to extend Max's upcoming paper so Max can get all of the time she needs. Time, Max thinks, is the problem. There's too much of it, and simultaneously too little of it. Chunks of it go sailing past her eyes with every passing day, and sometimes her hand twitches with the urge to control it again. She could, if she wanted to. There's no way of knowing whether the storm would return for her, another reaper come to collect. She can't take that chance, as much as she wants to. Can't betray Chloe. Max will try to find her peace, even if it seems to be buried underneath her feet, utterly out of reach.

Samuel is mopping outside of the science lab, and he offers Max a polite nod when she exits. 

"Watch your step," he says affably, "Wet floors and rushing students don't mix."

"I'll be careful." She smiles at him. "Busy today?"

"Always busy. Sometimes, Samuel wishes he could stop time so he could get everything done."

"I don't think that would solve anything, trust me." 

Samuel slapped the mop down onto the floor with a squelch. "Did you see the news this morning?"

"About the Prescotts? Yeah. Who do you think broke in?"

"Sean Prescott has many enemies, in Arcadia Bay and everywhere else. Your guess is as good as mine. But it seems that the Prescotts are falling from their pedestal." He looks up, eyes so blue and curious behind his glasses. "Sad, though."

"You think so?"

"The Prescotts weren't always bad."

Max nods thoughtfully. "I heard that. What happened to them?"

Samuel plops the mop into the bucket, and bends low to pick it up by the handle. "What always happens to families like that," he tells her quietly. "Tragedies, and children who get in over their head."

"You mean Nathan?"

Samuel's answering smile is enigmatic. "Your guess is as good as mine," he replies, and the moves away from her, wandering off down the hallway and rounding the corner. 

She stands there for a moment, her hand curled around the strap on her bag, until the final bell rings and the last pockets of students slam their lockers closed and head off to their next class. Max goes across the hall to photography, where Ms. Donnelly is already beginning her lecture on motion photography—and, as always, is using the desk she is sitting at as a wall between she and the class to continually distance herself. 

Max slips into her usual seat and starts to remove her things. Victoria is absent, to no surprise, and Kate lifts a hand in greeting. 

Max's eyes fall on the graffiti etched on her left, scribbled in angry marker on the bottom half of the wall. 

_KILL THE RICH KID_

It's the second class in a row that she remains distracted.

 

* * *

 

 

Hayden is hanging posters in the foyer when Max finally gets out of photography. Once upon a time, before bullets and tornadoes and best friends coming back from the dead, it had been her favourite class: the one glimmer of light during a monotonous day. Now, it fades to gray with all of the others. That particular class had dragged on forever. 

She stops at Hayden's shoulder as he stretches up high, pinning a huge and glossy poster to the wall across from the trophy cabinet. In the centre of the poster, a vibrant and party-animal-ish Santa Claus in sunglasses rides in a neon sleigh propelled by rocket fuel, of all things, flying through the middle of a spinning swirl—a symbol so familiar to her now.

"Christmas Carnage," Max reads aloud. "The Vortex Club's unmissable Christmas extravaganza." 

"You sneaked up on me there, selfie-girl," Hayden says breezily, offering her a lazy grin. He takes two steps back from the poster and crosses his arms. "Yep. Best fucking party of the year." 

Max makes a face, and it surprises a laugh out of him.

"You should join us sometime, Max. It might make you chillax for a minute."

"I'm chillaxed," she offers, but it comes out weak.

"Uh,  _yeah_ , sure. I'd hate to see you when you're excited."

Max rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch into a smile. "Principal Wells is seriously letting the Vortex Club hold another party? After the big investigation into Kate and Rachel and all of the others girls?"

Hayden shrugs, but Max does not miss the wince that coats his mouth for a moment. "That shit was fucked-up, but none of that was on us. We - man, we just wanted to have fun. I didn't know about any of that." He looks down at her. "I swear, Max."

"I believe you." 

"About your friend," he says, and Max falls still. "I met her a couple of times. Pretty punk rock, and way cool. But I never got the impression she was into the whole Vortex Club thing. She only hung out with us a couple times, and it always felt like she wanted to be somewhere else."

"Sounds like Chloe."

"I'm sorry," he says, so sincerely that it makes her look at him. "Seriously. It was fuckin' horrible what happened."

"Thanks, Hayden."

"I never thought Blackwell was one of those schools, you know? You hear about shit like that on the news, and Jesus—I don't know if it was because it's an artsy place, or because everybody's got money, but I never thought anything like that would happen here."

"Stuff like that can happen anywhere. It doesn't matter." 

"You're right." Hayden hesitates, and then says, quietly, "You know, I might talk to Principal Wells about the party. It is kind of messed-up."

Max raises her eyebrows. "Will the rest of the Vortex Club be okay with that?"

Hayden's lips press into a thin line. "If not, they've got some serious soul-searching to do. Thinking about what happened to those girls, and especially Kate when she's still walking around here, it's shitty."

He steps forward, and tears down the poster. The sound of the paper ripping fills Max with a surprising sense of peace.

"School needs a new club," he remarks. 

"You should start one."

"Me?" He chuckles, but she sees the idea brimming behind his eyes. "I'm not Victoria. I don't have that kind of reputation."

"So? You just said that the Vortex Club is a bad idea. Maybe it's time for a club that anyone can join; with parties that everyone can go to and actually enjoy."

Hayden is smiling, wide and white. "You might have something there, Max. Cool. I'll see what I can do." 

"Good. I'm glad."

 

* * *

 

 

When Max arrives back to the dorm, Victoria is lingering outside her own door. It's already dark, she's exhausted, and she wants nothing more than to just disappear into her own room and hide away from the world. But the sight of Victoria, miserable and rigid, phone clasped hard against her ear, makes her stop. 

Victoria presses a button hard on her cell and growls, " _Assholes_ ," looking for all the word like she's about to punch a hole in the wall. She spots Max standing there and narrows her eyes. "Bad time, Max. Move on."

"Are you okay?"

She sighs, exasperated. "No, I'm not. Today sucks. Everything  _sucks_. So I'm not in the mood to talk right now."

Max jitters anxiously on the balls of her feet. "Did something happen?"

"God, take a hint." Victoria pushes her phone into the pocket of her jeans and folds her arms. "You're not going anywhere, are you?"

"I... don't exactly feel comfortable with a furious Victoria Chase right outside my door."

Victoria almost smiles. Almost. "You're smart. And, apparently, observant." She rolls her eyes. "It's about the burglary." 

"The Prescott burglary?"

"What else? I've been trying to call Nathan's dad all day, but all I have is his office number and I've called so many times now, his  _bitch_  secretary is putting me on hold straight away."

Max blinks, confused. "What does the burglary have to do with you?"

"I have stuff at Nathan's house. _Expensive_  shit. Clothes, jewellery, and he has one of my favourite cameras. I was in such a rush trying to get all the important stuff from his room that I forgot about those other things."

"You think they were stolen?"

"Obviously. You've read the news, right? They thrashed every room." She takes one big, steady breath in through her nose. "They better catch whoever did this. I don't care what Nathan did, or how big of a dick his father is. Destroying somebody's house like that... it's seriously fucked up."

"I agree with you," Max says, and it seems to appease her. "It's all just... adding to the bullshit that's already piling up. That animosity."

Victoria looks down. "I'm worried, Max."

"About what?"

"This can't be the only thing the town is going to do to them. Everybody's  _pissed_ , and - jesus, they probably have worse stuff planned than a burglary. They're mad that they let Nathan go." She looks Max straight in the eye. "His dad's already lost a lot of his reputation, and it looks like Pan Estates is in the trash. There's nothing left for them here."

The realization hits Max about the same time that it glimmers in Victoria's eyes. She can almost read it.

"You're worried that his parents will leave town."

"Um,  _yeah_. It's obvious, isn't it? With Nathan in– in that place for however the fuck long, they can just pack their shit and go. They're not the sentimental type, seriously. They'll leave him and only call to tell him when they're in a big-city hotel somewhere."

"What are his parents like?" 

Victoria eyes her suspiciously. "Doesn't take a genius to guess."

"I know, but I want to hear it from you. You know him best."

Victoria huffs. "I was never their greatest fan, let's put it that way." She pauses. "When we were kids, they were okay. Distant, obviously, and they let Nathan and his brothers and sister do whatever the fuck they wanted. But whatever, that's cool when you're a kid, running around in a big house like that."

"And then?"

She sighs. "Do you remember Dean?"

Max shakes her head. "Nathan told me about him, though."

Victoria's eyebrows instantly arch to her hairline, and Max feels obligated to explain. 

"Uh, well, he was pretty vague."

"All-American boy," says Victoria, with just a touch of well-hidden annoyance. "Athletic, smart,  _super_ hot. I had a huge crush on him when I was kid. Classic friend's older brother type of stuff, you know."

Max doesn't, because the only friend she really had as a kid was Chloe and she didn't have any siblings. But she nods, anyway.

"He was supposed to take over the business," Victoria goes on. "His dad had a position all lined up for him, too. He just had to finish Blackwell with straight As and kiss everybody's ass. But, then..." Victoria's arms flop to her side. "A couple of years ago..."

Max has seen the articles, but she decides to ask. "How did he die?"

"Some heart thing, undiagnosed. It was never really clear. Nathan was– Nathan was the one who found him, that morning." Her shoulders sag. "He changed."

"That's awful."

"And his parents got a hell of a lot worse after that."

It makes sense. Max feels uneasy. 

Victoria's pocket starts to buzz, evaporating all of the questions Max had next. 

She makes a sound of agitation and pulls it out, scowling at the number again. "Probably his secretary, asking me to call back in the morning." She nods at Max. "Later. I better take this."

Max nods, and leaves her with a tight smile before heading into to her room. 

 

* * *

 

 

Max wishes her mother didn't always sound so dramatically relieved to hear from her, like Max had spent the past couple of days climbing Everest or something and never thought to call. She calls in the middle of one of her Mom's infamous stress-bake situations, otherwise known as when she destroys their small kitchen in a whirlwind of flour and batter for a number of varying reasons: one, work is causing her to lose her mind; two, Max's father is causing her to lose her mind; or three, she's received a call from her sister, Aunt Charlotte, who lives in Manhattan with her banker husband and Harvard med daughter and enjoys calling Max's mom to boast about everything from a new car to a new rug in the dining room.

Tonight, it's the latter reason, and Max lies on her bed listening to the wrought-out tension in her mother's voice that she knows so intricately well by now.

"They're all coming on the 26th," she says, as the sound of a whirring electric mixer squeals in the background. "Aunt Charlotte will insist that Brittany gets your bed, so it looks like you'll have to take the couch for the couple days that they're in town. And  _try_ and be nice to Brittany. And indulge your uncle in whatever story he thinks is funny and don't argue with him. And– Max? Maxine? Are you there? Are—"

"Sorry, spaced out." She presses her thumb to the pressure point between her eyes and sighs. "Sounds like another memorable Christmas."

"You're coming back to Seattle for your break, aren't you?" When Max fails to answer within the allotted three seconds, her mother's voice rises an octave. "Max! It's Christmas. You have to come home!"

"I have so much work to catch up on, Mom. And, to be honest, I don't think I'd be any fun this Christmas."

"We haven't seen you since– God, how long has it even been? And after everything that’s happened, when I think about you spending the holidays by yourself in an empty dorm, it breaks my heart." 

"But—"

"Max, Chloe wouldn't want you to shut yourself in like this, it's not—"

"Okay, alright," Max interrupts her, squeezing her eyes shut. She hates when her Mom starts this. One deep breath. "I'll come home."

The electric mixer dies down until it stops completely, and her mother's voice sounds slightly further away. Max imagines her pouring the batter onto the waiting trays, the phone held between her ear and shoulder.

"We can't wait to see you, honey. Really. And you'll see - some time away from Arcadia, from Blackwell, I bet it'll be exactly what you need." 

She says this every single time she gets Max on the phone. It still doesn't make any sense, or sound like the truth. But she pretends that her Mom is right, and answers her with a cheerful declaration of the same, because she doesn't want to upset her, and it's the right thing to do.

A part of her had hoped she wouldn't have to pretend with her mother, of all people. She wouldn't have to put up the walls, the false cheer and the suggestions of composure, cover herself over in strips of  _"I'm okay”_ and  _"don't worry about me”_ until they suffocated her. But she's come to realize that lying to her parents about all of this is easier than the truth. It's shitty, but it's easier, and Max thinks she deserves to take the easy route for once. Her mom just worries more if she shows even the slightest inkling of being withdrawn. It's not worth it: she'll get through this eventually. 

"Do you have enough money to get the train?"

"Yeah."

"Great. We really can't wait to see you, honey. Everyone is so looking forward to hearing about how Blackwell is going."

Max reads between the lines. Her nosy aunt Charlotte is really looking forward to wringing any possible gossip she can about Jefferson and the shooting of Chloe Price so that she can repeat it all back to her friends and pretend like she knows everything about it all, like always. Cousin Brittany will inevitably begin a fervent rant about gun control and Uncle Tom will passionately disagree, making his usual ridiculous opinions and expecting everyone to listen and agree. 

Here, it will be quiet. Arcadia always did Christmas right, at least in Max's mind; beautiful, but subtle, a quiet celebration in a seaside town that emphasised family and tradition. Seattle is too big, too loud, too bright, and it doesn't slow down. 

She doesn't feel any of her mother's optimism when she hangs up the phone. 

 

* * *

 

 

Nathan is standing at the ward's reception desk when Max arrives, carrying two banana sandwiches and a bottle of water. In the space of a week, the ward has transformed into an enthusiastically-glittery Santa's grotto, and Max is momentarily taken aback by the huge artificial tree by the television set, the endless stream of colorful bunting, the silver-and-gold tinsel and the sight of numerous, jolly 'Merry Christmas!' signs posted all over the walls. 

When Max turns to Nell, the nurse offers her a dry smile.

"I know," she says, deadpan. "Santa did, in fact, vomit all over this room."

"It's... nice," Max tries, but Nell's answering smirk soon has her laughing a little. 

"I didn't do any of it, so please do not feel obligated to compliment any of it." Nell shakes her head. "Sorry. I should probably find my Christmas spirit."

"There's still a little over a month to go," Max tells her, grinning. "You can get away with a some 'bah humbug' for a little longer."

"Thank God. Anyway, hi and stuff. I have some good news for you."

Max instantly looks at Nathan, who is glaring at Nell. 

"Nathan feels like going outside today," Nell informs her. "Can't blame him, with all of this crap blinding him every five seconds." She reaches under the desk and passes Max a little plastic bracelet with 'VISITOR' on the side. "Put that on so you can go out into the yard without the orderlies thinking you've escaped or something."

Max doesn't know whether or not she's serious or just kidding, but she slips it on anyway. Nathan grabs a brown-and-red knitted scarf from a box of what it is clearly the lost and found. The thing is tattered, old, and smells faintly of must. Max glances out the window at the wind shivering the trees and zips up her coat. 

"Thanks for actually using your yard time," Nell says to Nathan, and her smile is sincerely fond. "Maybe we'll get you to a community group yet."

Nathan shoots her a look that all together debunks that idea, and Nell laughs. She taps Max on the shoulder and points at the doors she's come through. "Take the elevator and hit the button with the 'Y' on it. Then it's straight through the doors in front of you. There's orderlies on supervision all over the place, so if Nathan tries to run, make sure you help them out by tackling him."

Max stares at her, stunned, but then she spots Nathan rolling his eyes and smiling.

Nell gives her a playful smack on the arm. "Kidding. Please do not tackle the patients." She winks. "I'll come get him in an hour."

It is a brand new, and exceedingly bizarre experience to walk back into the corridor and have Nathan accompany her. He slouches behind, and Max is hyper-aware of his presence in a way she's never really been before. It only gets stronger in the elevator, when he's suddenly right there, closer than he's ever been and  _staring_. The elevator takes its time descending, and Max plays nervously with her hands. She can hear his breathing, measured and calm. 

The doors ping open and reveal a pair of glass doors which lead out into the back gardens of the hospital. Max has to stop once they go out, her eyes growing wide as she takes it all in. It's breathtaking, all lush green grass that stretches and stretches, an enormous expanse dominated with abundant shrubbery and bursts of wildflowers, yellow and pink roses, hydrangeas, lavender, sunflowers. A smooth gravel path winds leads off and around; seeming to go on forever, forking off into several different directions where a white-painted bench sits perched underneath the shade of a Rowan tree. In the distance, a grand marble fountain spills water, and dotted around the grounds are several orderlies in their white uniforms, observing the patients that mill around the place, stopping to smell or touch the flowers, or just standing there, staring at the sky.

Max gives Nathan a sidelong glance. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

He shakes his head, and instead collapses onto the bench. After a moment, Max follows, sitting down next to him and listening as the twigs and leaves snap and crunch underneath her feet. She passes him his food, and then, stoops low towards her bag again to fumble around for her camera.

"It's so pretty," she says. She takes two pictures, one for her and one for Nathan. He studies it closely when she passes his to him, and puts her things away. The quiet and the crisp coolness doesn't provide much of a distraction, and for the first time, Max feels as though anything could happen. If Nathan's been holding back because he's surrounded by a bustling ward and a bunch of staff, she's about to find out. 

"Do you get to go outside every day?" she asks him.

Another head shake. He has his chin tucked in the nape of his neck, hands in the pockets of his jacket, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle. "You get so many hours a week and you can use them whenever."

"How many hours do you have?"

"This is my first time outside. So, whatever, a fuck-load."

"I'd go outside every day," Max says, more to herself. "There's so many photo-ops here."

There is, predictably, no reply, and when Max glances over she sees him tucked into one of the sandwiches, brushing crumbs off his lap.

"So," she says. "Harry is, like, the most adorable kid ever."

Nathan swallows, and makes some kind of undecipherable sound.

"You're lucky to have him."

"My house was robbed." It's so abrupt, Max isn't sure whether he's actually spoken the words at first. Not until he turns his head and meets her gaze. His face is blank. "Somebody broke in and thrashed the place."

"I– yeah, I heard. How did you hear?"

"We get the newspapers, same as everybody else."

"Oh. Right. Did your parents call you?"

Nathan snorts, and Max figures that's her answer. 

"Harry wasn't there, right?"

"He's in a boarding school during the week, so, no. If something had happened to him, whoever did it would be dead right now." There's not even a hint of exaggeration in his tone. 

"I'm sure they'll catch whoever did it," she offers.

Nathan shoots her a look that seems to say,  _Don't bother._ "The pigs in this town hate us. Why would they care? They probably threw a party when they heard."

"Try not to think about it," Max says kindly. 

He takes a slow sip of his water, and there is something in the pause that follows. When Max looks over, the relaxed lines of his shoulders have tensed. 

His eyes are on the ground when he says lowly, "Can I ask you something?"

She nods, stupidly, and then realizes he's not looking at her. "Of course."

"Do you know what I did?"

His voice is silky. Slow. Max opens her mouth and no words come.

Then, he looks at her hard for a long moment, and she tries to meet it head-on, but it's her that breaks it, eyes falling to her lap.

"Yes."

Nathan just nods, and takes one long drink of his water. As it leaves his mouth, though, a shuddering tremor ripples through his right hand and the bottle falls, hitting the dirt and sloshing its contents all over the place.

"Fucking–  _shit_." Nathan swipes it up and screws the cap back on with an unprecedented aggression. 

"Your hand," Max says, and he purposely avoids her gaze. He's shifting around uncomfortably, agitated and rubbing his neck. The skin is still blotchy and flushed. "Has it always been like that?"

For a second, she doesn't expect him to answer. Finally, he shrugs both shoulders and mumbles, "Comes and goes. Don't worry about it."

"I've noticed it a couple times before. It... must be annoying."

A few feet away, a patient with scrubbed red hair pulls roses out of their bush and gets scolded by an orderly. Nathan leans forward, hunched over and rigid.

"Why does it shake like that?"

Nathan is still facing away from her when he replies, "You ask a lot of questions."

Max smiles. "You never do."

Nathan turns his head in her direction. "Bad meds."

"What?"

"Bad. Meds." He repeats firmly. He sits back, and something in his eyes is cold. "When I was a kid, my father sent me to some psychiatrist shithead who bought his degree. He gave me bad meds. I don't know what they were, but they were the wrong fucking kind."

"They made you get tremors?"

He nods. "It's getting better, but..." He sighs. "Can we not talk about my family? Jesus Christ."

To be honest, Max is actually sick of talking and hearing about the Prescotts, too. She sends him a smile that he doesn't see. "Can I ask one more question, and then I'll leave it alone? I promise."

Nathan frowns, but says, "Fine."

"...What does your father actually  _do_?"

Nathan's mouth curls, but not pleasantly. "Business."

"What kind of business?"

"Nope. You got one question." He settles back and puts his arms behind his head. Max goes to protest, but he cuts her off. "Lemme ask you a question."

"Okay."

"Why do you keep coming back here?"

Max bites her lip. "I told you before. I want to."

"Nobody  _wants_ to come here."

"It's not so bad."

His hands curl into fists on his lap. "You get to go home."

"Not really."

He shoots her a curious kind of look, like he's sure she's messing with him or something. Max just looks at him plainly, openly.

"We aren't so different."

"Bullshit."

"No, it's true. I don't really have a home, either."

Nathan stares. And furrows his brow.

"It used to be Arcadia," Max goes on. "But then I left, and Seattle never felt like home. And now, even though I'm back, it's like I can't recognize anything. I feel like I'm in a fishbowl." 

His jaw clenches. "I hate this fucking place. It's a hellhole." 

"My mom is making me go back to Seattle for Christmas, and I  _seriously_ don't want to."

Nathan goes still. Whenever he stops fidgeting, it's so obvious in the way his body goes taut that it never escapes her attention. He inclines his head in her direction. "You're leaving?"

"For Christmas vacation, the week after next."

The thick silence that follows startles her. She wonders whether he's upset. If he'd only look at her, she might be able to read him.

"You don't get any kind of leave from here for Christmas, do you?" she asks him.

His laugh is a hollow sound. "Like fuck."

"I thought as much." 

He clears his throat. "How long will you be gone?"

"Two weeks."

"Two Wednesdays," he mutters, and Max is certain he didn't think she'd hear. 

"I'm sure Harry will come see you."

"Whatever."

He's off, suddenly. Different. He is so rigid in his seat that the wind that comes seems to struggle to brush over him. Max's chest tightens, and her skin prickles with that nervous-heat of having done something wrong. But what? He is gone from her, expression bolted, his presence suddenly faraway, and the sensation of being alone comes for her in a rush. The quiet in the gardens is stifling instead of gentle.

"Hey, you two." Nell crunches down the gravel path, a smile on her face.

Nathan stands and slouches over to her the moment he sees her. He doesn't look back. Something cold bubbles inside Max, a feeling of rejection, of knotted confusion deep in her gut.

"See you next week, Max?" Nell calls, and when Max nods, she claps Nathan on the shoulder and starts to lead him back in the direction of the building. "All righty," Max hears her say. "Back to the North Pole."

Max is left on the bench. She stares at the now empty spot beside her, and wishes, for the hundredth time that week, that she'd found a way of convincing her parents to let her stay in Arcadia Bay.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time she reaches the library's study room, a cramped cluster of a table, chairs and a wide window looking out over the campus grounds, she's flushed and panting and more than a little exhausted. Everyone raises their heads when she crashes in, her arms full of books, and though they grin and issue friendly hellos, Max still has the awkward feeling that she's barging in on something comfortable and relaxed. 

She collapses into the empty seat next to Kate and flips open her trigonometry textbook, flipping the pages furiously to find the same chapter as the others. Brooke is deep into an explanation of what to do and how to do it, and Max falls into listening with the rest. 

The hour goes rather quick, surprisingly quick, and study group ends just as Max seems to be learning something. As everyone is packing up, the room buzzing with loud conversation, Kate taps her lightly on the shoulder.

Max turns, to where Kate is zipping up her backpack. She gives Max one very long stare.

"Where do you go at four o'clock?" Kate asks her, and she sounds genuinely curious. Plus, she's Kate. She doesn't ask as many questions as Warren, or narrow her eyes in suspicion when Max has to make something up. 

So, her reply is loose and casual. "Just after-school stuff, you know. Errands."

Kate nods. "Oh. Cool." 

They are the last two out of the room, and Max waits for her in the doorway as Kate switches off the lights. They are left in the bright, spotless glow of the library.

Max sends Kate a smile that is not returned. 

"Errands?" Kate says.

Max nods, frowning. "Yeah, why?"

Kate's hand suddenly encircles her wrist, and Max's hand is pulled up into the level of eyesight between them both. 

Max's stomach  _plummets._

The visitor's bracelet. She forgot to hand it back.

It suddenly burns her arm like a brand, flashes her lies like a blindingly bright neon sign. 

Kate's eyes narrow. 

"Where were you  _really?_ "

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A considerably longer chapter to further things along! :D Endless thanks to Kittiara, as always, for putting her magnificent finishing touch to this and making it 10 times better, and endless thanks to you for reading! I was so blown away by the response to the last chapter, and I cannot thank you guys enough. Truly. I never had anyone to squee about Life Is Strange with, and I now I do! So much love to you all. Thank you :'D 
> 
> Wishing you all the safest, happiest and most peaceful festive season! I can't wait to hear your thoughts on this one. I'll see you all in 2016!! ♥

 

Kate is burning a Christmassy cinnamon candle in her dorm room. The smell is heavy and too sweet; a tangy scorch that burns Max's nose. 

She had always found Kate's room so quiet and comforting. It's always so tidy and bright, so full of that aura of Kate that Max always felt as though she had stepped into a new and sanguine world of patchwork quilts, photographs in glossy frames and religious iconography. Max isn't religious, not really, and had always disliked any occasion when she had to go to church. But something about Kate's room had always felt like the best kind of church, one with candles and time to think—to reflect. 

This is the first time, maybe ever, that Max has wanted to get the hell out of Kate's room and go hide in her own.

Tonight, the room offers no comfort, just stony silence that hangs on and on. 

"Kate," Max breathes. "Please, say something."

"What should I say, Max?" A beat of silence, and then, Kate turns away from her completely, swivelling around in her desk chair and opening up homework on her laptop. 

The hard knot of anxiety pulsing in the pit of her stomach tightens. She looks across the room to Kate's bunny for comfort, but even she turns away from her, burying her twitching nose in the corner of his cage. 

Max pulls on the too-tight band of the visitor's bracelet. She wants to rip it off with her teeth.  _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

This isn't them. She and Kate aren't these people. They don't like conflict; they tend to avoid it wherever possible. This feels wrong and messed-up, a confused mix of irritation and frustration that blazes like wildfire in Max's chest. Kate has never been this mad at her before.  _Ever._

"Will you please let me explain?"

The click-clack of Kate's fingers sliding over the keys provides the only noise in the silence.

"Kate."

"You don't have to explain." The bird-like bones of Kate's shoulders harden. "I know where you got the bracelet."

"You do?"

"It was all over the news. St. Dymphna's, right?" Her fingers stutter briefly over the keys, slender fingers curling inward. "They sent him there."

The soft emphasis on the 'him', the disappointment and anxiety that Kate coats it with, makes Max's breath leave her lungs. She feels like it's just banging around in her chest cavity, rattling her bones dry.

She's not going to be able to explain her way out of this one, and she doesn't want to lie. Kate deserves better.

"It's not what it seems. There's - there's a reason why I've been going. Reasons." Max says. "Kate, you know me."

"Do I?" That stings. "Because lately, I feel like I don't. Where have you been, Max?" 

A bitter reply tries to force itself out of her mouth, but she manages to swallow it down in time. "I'm still here." 

"Really? Because whenever we hang out, you always have this look on your face, like you're distracted, or want to be somewhere else. You're closed off. Different. You're there with us, but you're actually not." She spares her a brief glance over her shoulder, and her eyes appear glassy. "What happened to the Max who was always so bright?" 

Max looks away, the lump in her throat swelling and swelling. 

Kate hesitates. "You're brave. I thought - I still think, that you're so brave. And you were there for me when I needed you the most. But that goes  _both_  ways." She types out a string of keys with more force than is necessary. "It's like you don't want  _anybody_ to help you. You don't want to tell us what you're going through. And, it's like, all we can do now is watch you drift away from us."

"I'm so sorry, Kate."

"Why didn't you tell us you've been... going there?"

"It's not exactly something I could just blurt out," Max replies awkwardly.

"So you decided to lie."

"I didn't lie. I just didn't tell you about it."

"But you were ashamed.  _Are_  ashamed," Kate remarks. "That's why you didn't want to say anything. You knew what we'd say." Kate's sigh is almost a tangible thing, wrapping around Max in a suffocating rush. "Do you know how...  _terrible_  this is? I don't understand, Max. Why are you going to see him?"

"I was ashamed," Max tells her. "You're right."

Kate goes still. "Was?"

"In the beginning, I– I went because I wanted... I don't know, answers? It's been such an insane few months, I thought he could help me. To figure stuff out." Samuel's past words rumble across her mind. "To understand." 

Kate says nothing, and Max goes on.

"But now, since I've been going for a while," Her fingers twitch in her lap. "It's different. I go because I want to, because I– because  _I like it_. It's," she breaks off, a breathy chuckle tumbling from her lips. "Weirdly calming. And now, I think that I can help him."

Kate is rigid and silent. Max holds her breath.

Suddenly, Kate is whirling around in her chair. Her nails bite into the wood and her face flames with a twisted expression of hurt and frustration that stutters Max's heartbeat.

"He  _drugged_  me!" Kate exclaims. "Help him? Why, Max? You know what he did! He was involved with Jefferson, all of those other girls?" Max's stomach cramps up. "After what he did to Chloe? Max, why would you even give him the time of day? This is crazy!"

"Kate—"

"He's a _monster,_ " Kate spits. It's the angriest Max has ever seen her, and she shies back from it, disoriented. "He took away somebody you loved! Hurt all of us! He's the reason why I'm in therapy!"

"Kate,  _please_ —"

"Chloe was your best friend. Would  _she_  even want you breathing the same air as her  _murderer?_  Max, think about this!"

"If you just—"

"Don't try and explain it," Kate turns around again, and she looks so tired. The heaviness of her sadness clunks heavily onto the floor. "I don't think I'd understand, anyway. I don't want to understand why you're friends with someone like him. Why you would even want to help him."

There's a wedge between them now, a sudden distance that feels foggy and thick, one that's never been there before. Max feels a sting in her eyes and reaches up, feeling the tears prick and fall. 

There's no way to explain any of this logically, not to someone who doesn't know, who didn't see. 

Foolishly, Max had held some half-formed hopes of Kate trying to understand, to see it from her point of view. She's always been so big on forgiveness, Max had just presumed this would be no different.

But of course it's different. This is personal. And, even looking at it from Max's point of view is meek. Max can't explain the events of the past few months without making things worse, but on the contrary, she doesn't want to lie. If Kate knew about the timeline, if she knew that this is what Chloe  _wanted_ —but now, Max just looks like an asshole. An inconsiderate, cold bitch. 

Max feels like she's in a glass case, banging on the glass and screaming to a room full of chattering people who can't hear her. 

Max stands up slowly. She glances down at her hand, it's already raising. 

For one long, immovable moment, she contemplates using her powers.

She's not used them at all, and hell, maybe they don't even exist. If Chloe was right about them being tied to her, her rewind must also be dead with her. 

But she hasn't tried them, out of fear.

She could rewind this conversation, over and over and over again until she gets it right. Or, she could rewind all the way back to study group, and rip that bracelet off her wrist before Kate even notices.

Her fingers twitch, and Max almost gives in.

Almost.

Her hand falls limp at her side, and with the heel of the other, wipes the tears from her cheeks.

She can't. She promised herself. 

Promised Chloe. And, in a way, promised the storm. 

She pauses at the door, and looks back over her shoulder. Kate at the desk, her back to her, the intimidatingly big wall of tension between them... it's eerily similar to how it was before, when Kate covered the mirrors and shut the curtains.

"I'm so sorry, Kate," Max manages to get out, her voice watery. "I can explain this. All of it. But it's not the right time." She looks over, to where Kate sits so hunched up and small. "I'll be here when you want to hear it."

Kate doesn't reply, and Max leaves, the door shutting firmly behind her. 

* * *

Joyce's face is open and warm, and the smile she gives Max is even amused, as she begins to wrap up the ham and cheese melt that she's ordered. 

"You don't want to sit down for your food anymore, honey?" she asks.

"Sorry. I will next time, I promise. I just have to get to– uh, a study group." 

 _Lie, lie, lie. Nice, Max._  She ignores the pang in her chest. 

"Study group? Well, I'm glad to hear that. The friends I met at the funeral seemed like good kids." 

"They are." She thinks of Kate, who hasn't spoken to her or acknowledged her in class since their argument, and has to force a smile. Joyce has always been scarily-good at reading people. 

The diner is the same as always. Silverware clangs and Max breathes in the scent of sweet pancake batter and sharp, thick syrup. Justin and Trevor wave to her from a nearby booth, truckers sip their coffee, and it's all so normal and easy-going that Max kind of wants to crawl under the table and just stay here, where she feels safest, and the most at home.

She finishes on Friday, and it's going to be at least two weeks before she can get back here; back to the booth where she still feels Chloe sitting with her, back to feeling like a normal eighteen-year-old every time she walks in. 

Max snaps out of her reverie, and finds Joyce staring at her, one hand on her hip. 

"Are you going back to Seattle for Christmas, Max?" 

Still scarily-good at reading people.

"Yeah. I'm getting the train on Friday."

Joyce moves away then, over to the far counter, and picks something up from underneath one of the shelves. When she returns, she passes Max a crisp red envelope.

"Figured I could just send your parents' Christmas card back with you."

Max knows her mom will send Joyce and David something, but even so, she is overwhelmed by the swell of affection she feels for Joyce in that moment. "They'll be so happy. Thank you."

"How do you feel about going home?"

The first thing Max wants to say is that Seattle isn't home, not at all, but she bites her tongue and gives Joyce a sarcastic little smile that makes her laugh.

"I think it'll be the best thing for you," says Joyce. "Arcadia can be suffocating. It'll do you some good to go to a nice big city, all of those lights and trees." 

Max prefers the quiet benevolence of the Christmas lights and decorations here. Seattle is the place that's suffocating, with the sidewalks jammed with frantic shoppers and its too-tall buildings, stuck together in hard lines, leaving barely any room to breathe. It's a good thing her parents’ house is outside the city, sitting in a long cul-de-sac of neat gardens and picket fences, but knowing her mom and her aunt, she'll be dragged out kicking-and-screaming to some flashy department store and made to rub shoulders with pushy, loud crowds in cramped, sweaty spaces. 

 _God,_  Max thinks,  _I feel like Scrooge now._

Instead of saying any of that, though, Max just nods her head politely and replies, "I guess it will be nice to get some rest."

"Make the most of it, honey." Joyce's smile changes then, the sweetness of it dimming. "Family is the most important thing in the world, but the holidays can remind you about what you don't have, too." She sighs. "David and I have been looking at cruises. There's one that goes until the middle of January, and I think I might book it."

"Oh." Max swallows, and it feels too tight. "That's... nice."

"You can always speak your mind with me, Max. I know what it sounds like." 

William had taken Christmas seriously. Like, emphasis on the seriously. His celebrations started immediately on December 1st, and depending on your views towards the festive season, you were either euphoric or reluctant to get swept up in his madness. He always had to get the biggest tree, the brightest lights, the tackiest and most God-awful Christmas sweater. When they were really little, he was the one to take Max and Chloe to see Santa, to the carol services in town, to the beautiful Portland Christmas craft fair. There were home movies of him, jolly on mulled wine and with the sticky crumbs of Joyce's Christmas cake clinging to his chin. The house always smelt like pine needles and hot chocolate. 

Max's own parents weren't big on decorations. Her mom hated mess, so the tree had always been artificial, every bauble the same and hung at perfect distance from one another. The Price's tree was a haphazard explosion of ribbons, candy canes, glass ornaments that flashed and glinted like diamonds whenever they caught the light. Max had always come home from their house extra-festive, and the spirit had lasted, too. Christmas had been her favourite time of year, back then. Memories like those were framed with frosted-snow and glittering lights in her mind's eye.

After William died, Joyce would still send their big and beautiful Christmas cards, but Max knew for a fact that none of William's infectious holiday cheer was around. 

Christmas was only ever magical when you hadn't lost anybody; when you had no reason to be constantly reminded of family, and relationships, and how happy you were all supposed to be. 

Joyce is looking at Max like she's judging her decision, when really, Max understands it better than anyone.

"The house will be so quiet," Joyce sighs. "We haven't put up any lights or decorations, and I just can't stomach the idea of waking up Christmas morning without—"

"Have a great time," Max says, and she really means it. "I think some time away from Arcadia will be good for all of us."

Joyce's mouth tips up, fragile at the corners. "We will. And it'll be a good chance for David and I to do some talking. He's been... distant."

Max goes to respond, when suddenly, Joyce is straightening and shaking her head, a few locks of hair breaking out from her neat bun and falling around her face.

"Sorry, honey. I'm sure that's the last thing you want to hear about." She slips the sandwiches into a take-out paper bag and slides it across the counter. Max reaches for her purse, but Joyce's hand, the nails bitten, stops her, curling gently around her wrist. "On the house. It's Christmas, after all."

Max's heart sinks with the fondness of the action. "If you keep giving me food for free, the Two Whales will go out of business."

Joye chuckles. "We'll get by. Always have." 

Max gets the feeling she's not just talking about the diner, and she smiles when Joyce leans over the counter to give her a warm hug.

"Have a wonderful Christmas, sweetie."

"You too." 

* * *

Max waits at the bus stop, arms around herself as the sharp evening air whips around her, like icy tendrils that snap and sting. She's the only one waiting, and the town is already flooded in gray afternoon light. She watches the string of white-gold Christmas lights shimmer around the diner and observes the large tree that sits in the window. 

This is her last visit with Nathan for two weeks, at the very least. Max tries to shake off the coiled feeling of guilt that has wrapped itself around her ribs. She doubts Nathan is going to be in good spirits this evening, not after how he treated her last week: like she was walking out on him forever. With Kate mad at her, probably indefinitely, she doesn't want Nathan pissed, either. It doesn't feel fair. 

Sometimes she just feels like asking Warren if they've figured out the science of cloning yet, because lately, when she gets like this, she just wants to rip herself in two and have two Max Caulfields: one to stay here in Arcadia, and one to keep her parents happy in Seattle. 

She thinks about Seattle and hates the idea of going back. Hates. It's not the city, and it's not her family. It's just her, and the fuzzy chaos in her mind. There is no distraction where she's going. There's no school to keep her busy, there's no friends to hang out with, there's no Nathan Prescott to go visit so she can shut her brain off and just talk aimlessly, for once. She might have to think about things—and, knowing her mother,  _talk_  about them, too. 

She doesn't want to go.

"Maxine?" She turns at the sound of a low voice, and finds Officer Berry, his face a little grim and tired in the low light. "Sorry, didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't. Hi, Officer Berry." She takes in the bags under his eyes and can't help but ask. "Are you alright?"

"Not really. Did you read the newspaper this morning?"

"No. Why? Has something happened?"

"It's that Bowers degenerate," he grunts. 

"Frank Bowers?"

"We arrested him this morning, on suspicion of breaking into Mr. Prescott's estate last week. The guy's been causing trouble at the station all day."

Max feels a jolt. "Frank was the one who broke in?"

"Him and some of his junkie buddies, but he won't give up names. We're sure it was them, though." 

Max pauses, digesting it. "Did they want to hurt the Prescotts?"

"I don't know, kid. But you break into a place like that with crowbars, I doubt you just want to steal. At least nobody was home." 

"Did Frank confess?"

"No, but he will." Officer Berry frowns. "Who else could have done it? Plus, we found a crowbar in that shifty trailer of his. I hope he gets locked up. He's bad news for this town."

"I guess he doesn't like Mr. Prescott."

"He's swearin' blind that Mr. Prescott was more involved with the Dark Room than he let on." Officer Berry answers, annoyed. "We investigated until we were blue in the face, but the only evidence we could find is that the bunker belonged to the family, nothing else. Nathan offered the place to Jefferson, I'm certain. But it was nothing to do with his father."

"But didn't Mr. Prescott build that bunker? He had contractors and everything. He had to have built something like that for a reason."

Officer Berry stares at her for a beat. "How do you know about that?"

"Oh, it was, uh– in the news. When Mr. Jefferson was arrested."

"The newshounds know everything, it seems," Officer Berry says, but the suspicion is gone from his face and Max exhales a silent breath of relief. "I don't know what to tell you, kid. You just keep your head down and keep going as you have been. You're a testament to Blackwell."

"Thank you." She sure doesn't feel like it. Headlights glaze over them both, and Max looks up to see the bus, slowly coming to a stop.

"I'll let you get back to school, and I'll get over to the Two Whales for the lunch break I missed because of Frank Bowers." He gives her a lazy wave as he goes, a heaviness in his walk. 

Max leans her head against the cold glass of the window. Her head still feels foggy when the bus drops her off at the hospital. 

* * *

The extravagant and frankly garish explosion of Christmas on the ward still makes Max stop in her tracks, but she gets used to it quicker this time. Nathan is nowhere to be found, but it would be hard to find him anyway. It's the busiest that Max has ever seen the ward; families, friends, little kids—all buzzing around the corridor and reception area, followed by orderlies and security who seem to be trying to check the wrapped parcels and presents they've brought with them. 

It's overwhelming for Max to just stand there, but it's obviously bedlam for Nell and the other two nurses behind the desk. Nell is shouting room numbers and instructions, flushed, when Max approaches her from the side. She's brought her visitor's bracelet back, and waves her wrist at Nell so she can see.

Nell is simultaneously shouting in the direction of a patient lingering in the hallway with her family, and also has a hand on the phone at her ear. She gives Max the most apologetic smile of the century and simply tells her, "Outside. Downstairs again," before turning back to the anarchy.

Max is relieved. She figured Nathan would be as overwrought with the crowds as she is. The thought of sitting outside, cold as it may be, is suddenly the most appealing thing in the world. 

She remembers the way down to the elevator, and soon she's outside, inhaling that soapy, earthy flower smell and stiffening slightly against the breeze. It's still busy outside, with families going on walks with patients or standing around and talking, but thankfully, the gardens are big enough so that everyone seems stretched out and comfortably distant. 

She spots Nathan's jacket before she sees him. He's sitting on a bench near the water fountain, one leg stretched out in front of him, lazily kicking a small rubber ball towards a kid sat on the ground, sketch pad on his lap, laughing every time the ball hits his knee and goes rolling back to Nathan.

Harry. Max smiles. 

"Max!" Harry is still laughing when she reaches them. "Tell Nate to stop using me as a goal post— ow." 

Nathan stops and keeps his foot balanced on top of the ball. 

"Hey, Harry." Max sits down next to Nathan, the cold wood of the bench infiltrating the thinness of her jeans and making her shiver. "What are you drawing today?"

Harry turns his sketchbook towards her, and of course, it's another extraordinary piece. It's the fountain, sketched in pencil in intricate and preposterous detail, a little bird perched on the edge. 

He looks so adorable, wrapped in the biggest child-sized parka known to man, a scarf wound around his neck and a wool hat pulled tight over his head, a few wisps of caramel hair poking out from underneath. His cheeks are ruddy with the cold, but his eyes are bright, and the smile he sends her melts her heart a little. 

_Kids; too cute for their own good._

Max passes Nathan the sandwiches, and he meets her eyes for a moment. The look he gives her is indecipherable and she has to glance away, the weight of his gaze too intense. Still, she doesn't think he's mad anymore.

"You must be finished school this week," Max says to Harry, who gives her an eager nod.

"I finished today. When are you done?"

"Friday," she smiles. "I have to back to Seattle, then. That's where my parents live."

"Seattle has a cool art gallery," Harry tells her. "That's awesome that you live there!"

Max begs to differ, but smiles anyway. "Maybe you can go someday."

"I'd have to ask Nanny Cassandra extra-nice."

"I'm sure your mom and dad would take you, if you asked."

"Nah, they wouldn't." It's so casual and matter-of-fact. Max falters. 

Next to her, Nathan starts to peel the crust off the last sandwich. Max turns to watch, and something in her softens when Nathan bends down to give it to Harry, brushing crumbs off his lap. 

"What are you getting for Christmas?" Max asks Harry. She's always been awkward with kids, found them weirdly intimidating, but talking to Harry is easy. As brilliant as he is, as smart and talented, there is a natural warmth that Max has never really experienced with a kid before. 

"I asked for new paint," says Harry. "And I asked for Nate to come home, but Dad said no."

Nathan tosses the crust towards the grass, near to where crows peck at the earth. There's a strange aggression in his throw.

"We aren't staying in Arcadia for Christmas," Harry goes on, chewing the last bite of sandwich with a disappointed expression. "We're all going to our house in Boston."

Max's stomach twists. She turns her head slow, and tries to meet Nathan's gaze again. But he's not looking at her. He's turned away, sitting at an angle that turns his back on her. He stares off into the distance.

"That sounds like," Max hesitates. "Fun."

Harry shrugs. "It'll be  _boring_. I'm the youngest, so I'll have nobody to hang out with. All my cousins are really annoying."

Max has more in common with this kid than she thought. The thought amuses her, and makes her kind of sad. She feels for him. 

Nathan will be alone at Christmas. Utterly alone. Max is startled by the surge of _irritation_  that courses through her; irritation for Sean Prescott and his wife, for the whole Prescott family. What kind of parents could do that?

Max wonders whether Nathan is better off. 

It occurs to her that Nathan's room is missing something. 

"Harry," She reaches for her bag, perched in the space beside her. "Would you mind if I snapped a quick pic of you?"

"Sure!" Harry raises his head and grins. 

The picture comes out better than she expected, in such dim light. Harry's is looking up at the lens, eyes bright, smile wide, the gaps in his teeth endearing and boyish. Max smiles at it, and passes it down to him to see.

"Look at that. You're a great model."

Harry chuckles. "I like your camera."

"Why, thank you, Little da Vinci."

Harry grins toothily at the nickname. He pauses, and then looks up at her, almost shy. "Can I take  _your_  picture?"

"Of course." Max slides off the bench and sits down, cross-legged, across from him. Harry fumbles with her camera for a second, turning it over with a curious look on his face. He reminds her of a tiny scientist, fingers and mind yearning to explore and learn. 

"So, hold it like this," Max says, turning it around for him. She takes his small hand in her own and arranges it in the right place. "Just like that, yep, and then..." She leans back, and suddenly remembers how much she dislikes her picture getting taken. She smiles awkwardly just as Harry hits the button.

"Whoa," he says, amazed at how the polaroid instantly whirs out. Max shows him how to shake it, and after a moment, he holds it out to her to see.

It's actually not that bad. It reminds her of the sketch Daniel did of her once. She doesn't look like a total moron, and for once, her hair is windswept in a good way.

"Pretty!" Harry exclaims, and he sounds so serious and stern about it that Max can't help but laugh. 

"You're way too kind."

One of the orderlies calls out to them, standing by the entrance to the elevator, and Harry stands, gathering his things. 

"Already?" Max says.

"We're going to Boston tonight, so I have to get home." Harry looks apologetic about it. He picks up the ball and puts it back in his backpack, along with his sketchpad. Then, he slips his skinny arms around Nathan's shoulders and hugs him hard. Nathan doesn't respond, but he does lean in again, so slowly and gently that Max almost misses it.

"Merry Christmas, Nate," Harry says. He pulls away, and waves enthusiastically at Max before he jogs away, bag banging up and down on his back. 

Max can't stand the silence when he's gone, so she nudges Nathan to make him turn to her. When he does, she hands him the picture of Harry.

"For your room," she says quietly.

Nathan looks down at it, and she catches the brief flash of affection that ghosts across his eyes. 

And then, for a reason that greatly eludes her, Nathan reaches over and swipes the picture that Harry took of her off her lap.

Max flushes. "You want that one?"

It comes out sarcastic, but the responsive stare that Nathan gives her is anything but.

She swallows. "Okay, then."

After a while of sitting together, watching the water spill over the top of the fountain and slosh back down into a pool, Nathan says, "You're leaving, then."

"Yeah." Her fingers have gone a little numb with the cold. She knits them together in her lap and rubs them. "If I could stay, I really would."

"My family is leaving, too."

"That's not Harry's fault."

"I didn't say it was," Nathan snaps. He pulls at the old, threadbare scarf around his neck with a scowl. "It's my father. He's glad I'm in here."

"You don't know that."

"I fucking do. Ever since I was born, they didn't know how to handle me. They didn't know shit. Having somewhere to lock me away? They're thrilled." He crosses his arms. "Fuck 'em. I don't need them."

"Them leaving is on them," Max tells him softly. "It's not on you."

"I know that," he spits.

"It's not your fault, or anything." 

"I  _know_."

Max shrugs both shoulders, and pauses long enough so that he glances over at her. "It just seems like you're mad at yourself. You know, more than them," she says.

"Don't analyse me. You sound like fucking Dr. Perry."

"I'm not analysing. I'm just telling you what it sounds like, from a friend's point of view."

That makes him fall silent, and Max feels a momentary flash of victory. Across the green, a family says goodbye to a tearful patient, hugging her tightly and stroking her hair. 

"Sorry," Nathan says eventually.

"It's okay."

"I didn't mean to, like, piss you off or whatever. About Seattle." He squirms in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's because I'm pissed. About everything."

"I know. Don't worry about it."

The silence becomes comfortable. It's beginning to get really dark, a rich midnight-blue, but the gardens are well lit and it's like looking out over a balcony, the scenery so peaceful and colorful. 

It will almost be time to go. Max is reluctant. 

Nathan says, "Do you have a pen and paper?"

Max is confused, but grabs her diary and a pen out of her bag. She flips to the last blank page and, surprisingly, Nathan takes it from her. She feels a rush of paranoia at the fact  _Nathan Prescott is holding her diary,_ but he doesn't turn off the page. He takes the pen from her and hunches over, writing something that she can't see.

"What are you doing?" she asks, but she gets no answer until he sits up and hands her diary back.

A phone number is written there, in his jaunty handwriting. He's written his name in sloping letters beside the number.  _NATHAN_. 

"It's the number for the phone in the ward," he explains, his voice low. "The one outside my room."

"Oh?"

He rubs at his neck again, fingers carding through the soft hair at the back of his neck. "Call me. Whatever. When you're in Seattle."

Max is speechless for a second. The longer she's quiet, the more Nathan seems to squirm. 

"I can call you?"

"Yes." He actually sounds a little impatient. Max feels herself smile. "We can use the phone in the hall. Call me next Wednesday at four." 

"So we don't miss a visit."

"Yeah. Whatever. Look, if you don't want to—"

"No, I do." She clicks the pen and holds out her hand. He stares at it like he's never seen human skin before.

"What?" he says after a second.

"Give me your arm."

"...Why?"

Max rolls her eyes and, feeling brave, curves her hand around his left forearm and pulls it nearer. He's stiff and strange, and Max can't meet his eyes for some reason as she pushes up the sleeve of his jacket. 

Nathan is frozen. Under her fingers, his skin is unusually soft. She presses the pen gently to the skin starting by his wrist and writes up his forearm in a rightward direction. She can't make it out in the dim light, but there are some little slivers, shapes or lines of some sort, on his skin. Before she can see clearer, she's finished writing, and he's taking his arm back and looking at it.

"What's that?" he asks.

"My cell. You can call me, too. Whenever you want."

He sends her this look, like he's trying to figure out whether she's joking or not.

"Seriously. I'm going to be bored. Call me, too."

"Fine." 

"Max, Chuckles!" A voice rises from nearby. Max turns and deflates a little at the sight of Nell, waving at them from the elevator door. "Time's up, I'm afraid."

"Coming!" Max calls back. She turns to Nathan. "Before I forget—"

She reaches for her bag and pulls out the soft parcel, tied with twine. She hands it to him and it drops like dead-weight in his lap.

"What?" 

"Just open it."

He does, fingers hesitant before he tears off the paper. 

"Because that one looked really bad," Max says, smiling.

Nathan holds up the scarf, the same color as his jacket. He stares at her, and she's both relieved and disappointed that she can't see his face in the darkness.

"Merry Christmas, Nathan." She gets up, and by the time she reaches Nell, her chest is filled with a warmth she didn't expect.

* * *

Max packs for Seattle alone in her dorm on Friday evening. Kate doesn't come near her, and Max thinks she's actually left, already. She tries not to dwell on it, but it feels like a loss, and it aches in her chest.

She packs the same few outfits she always wears, her shower bag, her laptop and chargers and, just because, her favourite old teddy bear. The room seems bare and cold by the time she's nearly finished. Her music plays softly in the background, a song Chloe would have hated, laughing as she inevitably called Max a hipster and danced around the room regardless. 

Max doesn't touch the boxes. She throws a blanket over them when she's tidying out her desk. 

Almost everyone has left already, and Max herself is heading to the train station with a hefty stack of homework and deadlines. She's strangely grateful about it, actually. Her mother doesn't like to bother her when she thinks she's doing schoolwork, so she might be able to milk Ms. Grant's Chemistry paper or Ms. Donnelly's Photography assignment for the next two weeks, if she tries. 

Her mom has already sent her about eleven hundred text messages reminding her of the train time, telling her where they will pick her up in Seattle, and whether or not Max has packed everything she needs. 

It's going to be a long two weeks. 

She's already yawning when there's a soft knock on the door. 

"It's open."

She's gathering shoes when Warren comes in, hands behind his back and a smile on his face. He has a Santa hat perched on top of his head, one that lights-up and everything, a rich, glittery red.

"Hey," she smiles. "You're looking festive."

"'Tis the season." He takes a seat at the top of her bed and looks around. "Psyched to go home?"

"Uh, no."

He laughs. "You'll be fine, Super Max. Get some chill-out time before the next semester starts and tries to kill us all."

Max rolls her eyes, folding up t-shirts. "You're that student that studies on Christmas Day, aren't you?"

Warren holds up his hands. "Guilty as charged."

Max smiles affectionately. "Nerd."

"And proud."

She's zipping up her suitcase when she notices Warren's awkward posture. "What's up?" she asks. "What are you hiding?"

Warren gets to his feet, biting on his bottom lip, and Max watches as he slowly comes towards her and takes his hands out from behind his back. 

A small, rectangle-shaped box sits in his palms.

"Warren," Max half-groans. "We said we weren't going to do the present thing. I'm broke."

"I don't want anything, for reals. This is for you, because you've had a hell of a fucking semester one, and you deserve this."

Max frowns at him, but it soon dissolves into a smile as she takes the box from him and opens it. The ribbon falls away and the lid comes off and, inside, she finds a stunning rose-gold necklace chain, with a single pendant, in the shape of a camera.

" _Warren._ "

"Like it?" He waggles both eyebrows. 

"This is– it's—," She's breathless, and overwhelmed, and kind of furious at herself for not getting him anything, because she  _knew_  he'd break the No-Present rule. "Warren, seriously. This is too much."

"Put it on." He takes it from both ends and motions for her to turn around.

She does, and the light brush of his fingers around her neck alarms her a little. It's too soft, too intimate. She spins and he's  _right there_ , face so close.

Max takes a step back. "It's so beautiful, Warren. Thank you."

"It is." His smile is so gentle. 

He's buying her expensive necklaces and smiling at her too softly. This has gone far enough. Max doesn't want to see his smile crumple like she knows it will—doesn't want to feel like a bitch even more than she already does, but if she goes back to Seattle with this hanging over her head, she'll never forgive herself.

"Warren." She puts her hand on his shoulder, and then on his arm. "You're the best friend that I could ever ask for. But you know that this isn't– I can't—"

"No." He shakes his head. "Take all the time you need, Max. When you're ready, I'll be here."

Max flushes. "No, that's not what I—"

But he's not listening, overcome with obvious elation as he walks backwards to the door and gives her one long, final grin. "Merry Christmas, Max."

"But—"

She almost laughs when the door shuts. 

_At least I tried._

* * *

Christmas in Seattle is exactly what Max pictured. From the time she arrives till Christmas Day, she never gets a single moment of time to herself. 

Her parents skirt around the subjects of Chloe and Jefferson, but her relatives go full-throttle and crash right into them. Aunt Charlotte tries to use her carefully-chosen, exquisitely wrapped Christmas presents for Max as an excuse to get Max to tell her everything, while she has to sit through hours of Brittany sounding _jealous_ —actually fucking jealous—about the fact Max seems to be getting all the attention this Christmas.

She doesn't want the attention. Loathes it, in fact. She avoids Aunt Charlotte's prodding to the point where she feels an odd glimmer of pride at watching her aunt's face grow redder and redder with frustration, and her cousin grow poutier and more offended. Miraculously, she also manages to not murder her Uncle Tom when he goes off on one of his racist, anti-everything rants about whatever is happening in the world, driving Max to the point of gripping her hair hard as she sits at the kitchen table, trying not to rip it all out. 

They shop, go to dinner, watch old movies that everyone ends up talking over and then missing half the plot. By the 27th, Max is seriously contemplating getting a train back to Arcadia.

She gets into a half-hushed argument with her mom in the kitchen that morning, and tries to convince her to let her go. She's come home, she's done the whole Christmas thing, and the novelty has quickly worn off. It's not being selfish, as her mom tries to argue—it's being suffocated by an environment that she should not be in. It irritates her to no end that her mom is constantly going on and on about Seattle as some sort of safe haven for Max to get away and get her thoughts back together, when being here is exactly the stark opposite. 

She's tired, cranky, and she wishes Chloe was here.

* * *

On Wednesday evening, her mom, cousin and aunt are still out shopping, making the most of the post-Christmas sales, and her father and uncle are drunk and laughing uproariously in the kitchen. In a few minutes, they'll inevitably be shouting and arguing, and then in half-an-hour, they'll be laughing again. It's been like that all week. 

Max barricades herself in her bedroom and lies down on her bed, keeping the curtains open so that she can look out across the city's sea of lights. It's almost four, and she's alarmingly nervous. She's never been this nervous. 

It could be that she won't be able to see him this time, or that she's not actually sure who is going to call who. What if it's her that's supposed to call, but she wastes the hour by waiting for him? She clutches her cell phone in an iron-tight grip and stares out at the moon, chewing on her lip. 

They never really said who'd call who. What if he doesn't want to talk to her at all? What if he's changed his mind? He's that kind of person: changeable. What if Max calls him, and he's not—"

_Bzzzzz._

She almost topples off the bed. She stares at the screen of her phone, at the unknown number flashing there. Her heart is in her throat. 

"Hello?"

A mechanical, automated woman's voice sounds clear and authoritative in her ear. "A patient at St. Dymphna's Psychiatric Hospital is attempting to contact you. To accept the call, please press 1—"

Max punches the '1' key.

Silence. 

Some static, buzzing over the line.

"H-Hello?" she says.

"Hey."

Max can feel her breath in her lungs, knocking around. She sits up, and then lies back then down. "It worked."

The silence on the other end isn't awkward, and Max wonders if Nathan is as stiff with her on the phone as he seems to be during his visits.

But then he says, "Where are you?"

"My room. Where are you?"

"Uh, standing in the hallway of a fucking hospital."

She doesn't know why that makes her laugh. It just does. Her laugh is a burst of static across the line and she rolls over onto her pillows. She pictures him standing with the phone to his ear, in the quiet whitewash of the corridor.

"How was your Christmas?" she asks.

"Fucking horrible." He clears his throat. "You?"

"What I expected." 

"So...?"

"Bad."

He makes a sound of understanding. 

It's more startling than she had pictured, talking to him on the phone. She had known it would probably feel more direct, and—okay, extremely awkward—but this is different. It's not that awkward, it's just hard not to see him. It's also weirdly... intimate. Max flushes as she thinks of the word, but it's true. It's nothing but voice. It's a focus on nothing but conversation, something that's not exactly Nathan's strong-suit, and the silences that come are amplified.

But it's not bad. He feels nearer, and he doesn't sound too upset over the fact she's in Seattle and he's in the hospital. 

Max focuses in on his voice. It's quiet, unlined with the usual hard edges. He sounds tired. 

"How are you?" she asks him.

"Fine." 

"Me too."

"I miss the food you bring," he says, so sternly that Max laughs again.

"I know. Sorry. Hospital food isn't good."

"You'll just have to bring extra when you come back." She wishes she could see him, because it almost seems like there's a smile in his voice.

"I will. I promise." She sits up and leans her arms on her knees, looking out the window. She can see the Space Needle. "How's Arcadia?"

"Fuck if I know. I'm in here, aren't I?"

"But like you said, you get the newspapers, same as everybody else."

"Frank Bowers is out on bail for robbing my house," Nathan says, after a beat. "Fucker."

"He's angry at your family."

"Do you know him?" He says it urgently. 

"Not really." Pause. "Do you?"

"...I used to."

She admires him a little for being honest. "How?"

She hears him shifting around in the background. "It doesn't matter. He's dogshit."

"He thinks your dad had something to do with the Dark Room."

"What?" Max winces. Nathan's voice has shot up an octave. "Does my father know that?"

"I don't know. I just know that's why he broke into your house. Officer Berry told me."

"If you hear anything more, about my father or– or Frank Bowers, I need you to tell me." 

"Okay."

"I'm serious."

"I will, I promise."

He exhales, long and tired. "Tell me something." 

Max thinks. "Will you let me rant about my aunt and uncle?"

"Yes. Please."

Max does. 

She hears her mom, Charlotte and Brittany crash through the door, cackling, at the same time that Nathan sighs heavily on the other end.

"I have to go. There's been a line forming behind me for the past ten minutes and the orderly is getting all pissy."

A laugh bubbles out of her. "You should have told me. I would have shut up."

"No," Nathan says sincerely. 

She rests her chin on her knees. "Thanks for calling."

"Call again." He hesitates, and she hears him shifting again. "Not just Wednesday. Call me whenever."

"I will." She means it.

"Can I call you?"

"Of course. Whenever."

"When you get back to Arcadia," Nathan says, "We can still talk on the phone. I'm free, like, all the fucking time."

"Honestly, me too."

His voice sounds closer then, like he's leaning into the receiver. "Bye, Max."

"Bye, Nathan."

She's sitting on her bed, staring at her phone, when Brittany bursts in without knocking, about ten bags in each hand.

"What are you doing being all emo in here?"

Max frowns at her and goes to respond, but Brittany didn't seem to be waiting for an answer.

"Come help unpack the shopping," she orders, and disappears. 

Max reluctantly slides off the bed, rolling her eyes. 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're all trying to kill me. The past few weeks, I've gotten so many fantastic messages about this fic and have again watched as the reaction has been just out of this world. Thank you so, so much for your support of this. I don't even have the words. And a thousand thank yous and hugs to the spectacular Kittiara for sifting expertly through a chapter that was written on a highly overcaffeinated four-hour binge, and making it so much better than it was before. I bow to you!
> 
> College is kicking my ass so I really appreciate your patience with the updates. Soon, I will kick COLLEGE'S ass. Just as soon as I crawl out from underneath this mountain of exams, books and regret. Until then, I really hope you enjoy this one.

 

New Year's Eve has always consisted of the same blur of activities. Max's mom cooks an enormous, sizzlingly hot breakfast and Aunt Charlotte begins drinking red wine right afterwards. They spend the day watching movies, old televised black-and-white concerts, fading into stomach-full naps by the firelight every time the commercials come on. Uncle Tom rambles about immigration and they pretend to listen. Max's father usually ends up hurting himself in some way when he attempts to chop vegetables for the lunch or burns himself on the oven. Brittany rolls her eyes and stays buried in her phone and is about as conversational as a concrete wall. 

It's the same, this year. But it's not terrible. In everything that her family does, there is a peculiar ripple of familiarity and comfort. Her uncle will always try to start an argument that goes ignored, her mom will always cry at “It's A Wonderful Life”. Nothing changes here. Everything stays in place. 

At eight o'clock that evening, they go to the New Year’s dinner and celebrations in the Space Needle. It's six unfathomably delicious courses, and the atmosphere is magnetic. The place is jammed, brimming with color and sparks and lights that dance in the reflection of her cutlery: a mini-fireworks show. When the entertainment starts, some kind of swing band has an extraordinary magnet effect on everybody over forty, as they drift immediately to the dance floor; and while Max sits at their table by the window and looks out over the broad, breathtaking lights of the city, she comes to understand something.

There is a reason why she finds comfort in this: a reason beyond the familiarity. 

This place is unaffected by time. Months pass, years pass, people age and grow and new buildings shoot up on blocks all over, but nothing really  _changes._ Here, Max's power becomes a distant, foggy memory. Time doesn't reach here, it doesn't affect her family.

There would be safety if she stayed here. An acknowledgement that nothing bad could ever possibly happen, and that there would be no ghosts from her past ever gliding into a school bathroom. She could learn to be normal again. To try to forget. 

But in that, she'd deliberately forget Chloe. She'd have to forget Chloe to stay here—to go back to the girl she used to be, to return to the ways things always were and always shall be.

Max takes out her camera and snaps a photo of the lights. 

She can't stay here. Chloe wouldn't want her to, but Chloe definitely wouldn't have wanted her to stay in Arcadia for the rest of her life. 

She feels the beginnings of a headache, a tense pulse against her frontal lobe. The music is too loud, the beat bursting from the speakers like bullets. 

A memory of Chloe comes. Or, maybe, this is real. Chloe is on the dance floor, just a few feet away, dancing and gliding between the neon flashing lights, waving her arms without a care in the world. She fills the room and Max feels like she's suddenly suffocating. 

Chloe spins to face her, still dancing, the corners of her mouth impish and fun. Her white shirt is soaked in her blood; blood still running out of her bullet wound, running down her jeans and onto the floor—

"You're pale," Brittany tells her from across the table, her delicate features illuminated in the blue-hue of her iPhone. "Are you going to throw up?"

"No, sorry. I just feel... dizzy, being up so high."

"You're— ew, all sweaty." Her voice is far away and underwater.

Max looks back to the dance floor, but Chloe is gone. 

Brittany lowers her iPhone and runs her eyes over Max in that negatively-appraising way that she always does. "Are you wigging out?"

"What?"

"You don't look all that great."

"I'm  _fine_ ," It comes out harsher than she means it, and Brittany's eyebrows raise.

"Here." Brittany straightens and grabs the half-full pitcher of water on the table, and pours her a fresh glass of it, sliding it over. "Before you pass out."

Max sips it. It's a cold wave, gently rolling over the daggers digging into her chest and the headache pounding her brain. 

After a minute, Brittany clears her throat. "Um, by the way, I never said..." She huffs. "What happened to you. That crazy shit at your school. That's fucked up."

Max cups both hands around the glass and concentrates on the coldness of it, sharp against her skin. "Yeah."

"I'm sorry. That it, like, happened to you."

"Thanks, Brittany." 

"I know I usually give you a hard time, but," Brittany looks awkward, flipping her hair around her head and examining her nails too hard. "Seriously, Max, you're brave."

 _Brave._ Max feels nothing for the word. Honestly, it's a  _taunt._  The universe points at her, cackling. She tries to smile at Brittany, but there's no meaning behind it and it quickly disintegrates. 

She drains the rest of the glass and stands. "I'm just gonna go to the bathroom."

Brittany nods, and falls back into her phone screen like nothing even happened. 

Inside, she splashes her face and barely comprehends her red-eyed, exhausted-looking reflection in the spotless mirror. 

She's still in the bathroom, hands braced either side of the sink with her head bowed, when the countdown begins and finishes.

It's a new year. A fresh start. 

And yet, all Max can think about are the things—the  _people_ —that she's leaving behind. 

 

* * *

 

 

Her relatives leave the morning after New Year’s Day. Her parents are driving them to the train station, and Max opts out. Her mom looks disappointed, but thankfully, doesn't call her on it.

The apartment is too quiet, and so glaringly empty after almost two weeks of constant noise, chatter, music. She sits in gray light by the kitchen window, still in her pajamas, and shuts her eyes as her brain tries to make her go do all of the things she really should be using this noise-free time for. 

_Shower. Pack. Do laundry. Eat. Call Nathan._

There are four things she can do with her parents around, and one thing that she can't.

She pads into her bedroom and finds her phone, tangled in a sea of blankets, and returns to the kitchen to hop up on the counter, nestling herself into the comfortable little alcove by the sink. 

They have talked on the phone four times, and each time, Max practically had to pull the blankets over her head and keep her voice low. The new space, the brightness and the quiet, is suddenly appealing. 

The number is at the top of her recents. 

The automatic voice never changes. "You have reached St. Dymphna's, Arcadia. To contact the office, please press '1'. If you are seeking to contact a patient, please--"

Max hits '2'. She knows the drill by now. 

It rings five times. Max scratches the fabric of the pajamas stretched across her knee as she waits.

Nathan knows to listen out for the phone in the morning. He always calls her after three. 

When he finally picks up, he's out of breath. 

"Yeah, hello?"

"Hi. Nathan?"

"Yeah. Hey. I heard the phone from my room."

Around the third call, he started talking more. Now, there are less silences, and she doesn't suffer that nervous cramp in her stomach anymore. Like the meetings, they've grown used to each other in this way, too. Max is surprised by how nice it is to hear his voice. 

"Happy New Year," she says. 

"You too." He doesn't sound sarcastic about it for once. "What did you do?"

"We had dinner in the needle." 

"The what?"

"The Seattle Space Needle." 

"Oh, right. That tall fucking thing." His voice is weighty with something, something like dread.

Max smiles. "A lot of people find it cool."

He grunts. "Fuckin' hate heights."

"Scared?"

" _No_ ," he snaps, defiant. "Just -- hate them."

"Oh, sure."

He makes a flustered, annoyed sort of noise, and Max has to hold back a laugh. 

"What did you do?" she asks him.

"Well, the first thing I did was take a plane to London. Saw a show, had lunch with the Queen. She even made me a Lord or some shit. Then I—"

Max cuts him off, laughing. "Okay, Prescott. I had that coming."

It's funny, and more than a little startling, that once she had called him Prescott with venom on her lips and a rumble of fury in her throat. Now, it's bordering on  _warm._  

The Nathan she knows now and the Nathan she once knew, for some reason, are intricately connected. Whereas Max has learned to categorize those around her and her relationships with them in terms of pre-Chloe and post-Chloe, Nathan is the only one she can't quite seem to separate. When she talks to this Nathan on the phone, the Nathan oblivious to everything she knows and everything she did, she still hovers in a perpetual state of feeling like he'll find out somehow. She can't fall asleep at night because images come and burn into her brain, ridiculous but nonetheless  _frightening_  images of a Nathan in his St. Dymphna's scrubs, wide-eyed and trembling as another Nathan, will bullet wounds peppered across his chest and blood leaking down his chin, crouches at his side and whispers in his ear, telling the whole truth and nothing but.

"How do you  _think_ my New Years was?" He shoots back, and she's pulled from her reverie with force. "Same shit, different day." There's a rustling sound in the background, and Nathan barks out a shout. "Fuck off! I'm using it!"

"Who's that?"

"Assholes here always acting like their calls are urgent. They can wait." There's another voice in the background, a disgruntled one complaining, and Nathan groans, low and irritated, and snaps back, "So go squat somewhere! I'll be done in a minute."

"I can hang up--"

"No, stay." She hears him shuffling around in place. "We only have a couple of minutes left, anyway."

"Okay. What do you want to talk about?"

Since the second phone call, she's been asking him that. He's easier, less wound-up, if she offers to let him steer the conversation. 

"You're coming back this week?"

"Uh-huh. I'm getting the train back this Friday. School starts back again on Monday." She wonders if he misses Blackwell. Anything about it at all. 

"You'll come and see me next week then, right?" 

"Of course."

"Good." He sighs heavily. "Fucking Christ, I'm so _bored._ "

"Why don't you go to Community Group?"

A pause. "I'm not  _that_ bored."

"Nathan—"

" _No_. It's horseshit. You sit in a circle for an hour, hold hands and make fucking diagrams about how Mommy and Daddy never gave you a hug, and slowly get the life sucked out of you."

"Really."

"Yes."

"But you've never been to one. How would you know that's what happens?"

" _Ugh_ — fuck, because— because I just  _know_ , okay?"

"I think you should go to Nell's group. She knows you, so she wouldn't make you do anything you didn't want to do."

"Don't tell me what to do." It's not angry, just frustrated. Like he knows he should and he will and he is going to lose this argument.

"I'm not. I'm suggesting what would really, really help you."

The silence on the other end is so petulant, it almost makes Max laugh.

"I'll  _think_ about it," he finally grinds out. "Alright?"

"Alright." 

"I gotta go. There's a line again."

"Okay. See you next week."

"Bye, Max." 

Her dad gives her an amused look when they return home and she's still there, sitting on the counter in her pajamas, gazing down at the city. 

"Thinking deep?" he says as he passes her, ruffling her hair as he goes because, in her dad's eyes, Max will always be six years old. 

"Just thinking."

 

* * *

 

 

In photography on Monday morning, everyone is mingling around the room swapping stories about what they did for the holidays. Alyssa and Daniel are doodling in a huge sketchbook, heads huddled close together. Hayden is doing homework. Kate is still ignoring her. 

They have to partner up for a portrait technique experiment and Max is rocked by the crushing sadness that washes over her when Kate, who has always been her go-to partner for everything, heads over to Stella. 

It feels like middle school. Still, Max doesn't miss the sadness in Kate's eyes, either. 

Max has an idea how to get her back on her side, but before that, Kate still needs some time. 

In the end, she partners up with Dana, which is actually kind of wonderful as she doesn't require Max to talk that much, just listen, as she chats animatedly about Trevor and cheerleading and the local gossip. Max's photo of her turns out beautiful, capturing all of Dana's bounce and warmth. Max finds it hard to look at her own photo, but forces a smile and assures Dana that she loves it. 

It's good and bad to be back in Arcadia. 

After class, she swears she sees Chloe in the hall. She's sweating, too, breathless in a way that catches in her throat and hammers her heartbeat. 

It's not exactly the best time to literally collide with Principal Wells in the hallway.

"Oh! I'm sorry, sir."

"Max? Are you okay? You look sick."

His voice is buzzy, strange, but Max takes a few deep breaths and shakes her head dismissively. "I'm fine, sorry. Just hot."

"While I have you here," says Principal Wells, "I've made you an appointment with Miss Owens for tomorrow, during your free period in the morning."

"...Who?"

" _Miss Owens_ , Max. Our wonderful school counsellor."

Dread. It floods through her like liquid lightning. 

"What? But, Principal Wells, I don't need to go to the  _counsellor--_ "

"It's only the first day back after the holidays and I've already gotten a complaint about you." 

"From who?"

"Ms. Grant. You don't remember? You fell asleep in her Chemistry class this morning."

 _Oh, that. Shit._ His gaze is intense and blazing with concern. She can't look at him.

Her cheeks flame. "I'm sorry, sir. I guess... I'm still tired after the holidays."

"Max, it's more than that and we both know it. I can't stand by anymore and allow you to get caught in the tide. I think you'll really benefit from going to see Miss Owens, we're lucky to have such a fine counsellor under our roof."

"But—"

"She can't wait to get started with you. I have a meeting to get to right now, but I'm looking forward to hearing how it all goes. I'm sure it'll be extremely beneficial." 

He's gone before she can even open her mouth. 

 

* * *

 

 

Arcadia Bay always has a topic of the week.

The issue or the conversation that everybody is having, always at the same time, at bus stops, in stores, in the diner. The current thing, or person, who has found themselves unfortunately at the mercy of the Arcadia gaze. Sometimes the topics are obvious: local deaths, town events, the Prescotts, celebrities, taxes and politicians. Sometimes, they aren't so obvious: families having their dirty laundry aired and dissected by the whole town, rumours and hearsay, hushed debates about neighbours, friends, children. 

The topic of Max's first week back at Blackwell is Frank Bowers.

Everyone knows by now that he committed the burglary, and he's currently out on bail, pending a further investigation. Some people are applauding him, saying the Prescotts had it coming to them. Others are sympathetic, saying that the town is turning into one big criminal cesspool. 

She hears through gossiping cheerleaders in the hallway that Frank's trailer is down at the beach. 

Monday afternoon, when the sky is a clear pale azure and the cold is a snapping dog at her heels, she picks her way down the sand and inhales the salt-seaweed smell.

The trailer door is shut and the blinds pulled all the way down, but there's a deck chair outside with a half-full bottle of beer. 

Max knocks, and immediately, Pompidou starts barking on the other side.

Frank's voice assaults the walls. "Who is it?"

"Max. Max Caulfield."

"The fuck are you doin' here, kid?"

"I want to talk to you."

She hears him snort. "You'll have to make an appointment."

"I want to talk to you about the Prescotts."

Silence. 

Then, a chair, scraping across the floor.

The door is opened a crack, and he sticks his head around it. A cigarette smoulders in his hand.

"Do you now? Why the fuck is that?"

"You think that Sean Prescott had more to do with the Dark Room than what they said. Well, I think that too."

His face changes. She watches it go through about a hundred different emotions in the span of a few seconds, like a kaleidoscope. Somewhere behind him, Pompidou is still barking. 

A cool breeze shivers by, and the sound of the waves grows louder. Max crosses her arms and stands her ground.

Frank shuts the door behind him and comes down the steps. He sinks into the chair, exhales a plume of smoke, and when it clears, he's staring at her with a curiosity reminiscent of the Frank from the post-Chloe timeline.

"Shoot," he says.

"What were you looking for at the Prescott Estate?"

"Ain't it obvious?" When she doesn't react, he takes another drag of his cigarette and swallows. "Information."

"On what?"

"Why is this so important to you?"

"It just is."

"This is bigger than you, girlie."

"So help me out."

He chuckles. "Why?"

"Because I think you're right. I think Mr. Prescott is involved, and I want him to be held accountable."

The laugh that startles out of Frank is bitter. "This is Arcadia Bay, Caulfield. I hate to remind you, but justice isn't this town's main priority."

"I can help you," Max tells him. "The police are more likely to investigate him if I'm on your side."

"Why? You Officer Berry's best friend or something?"

"No, but the police trust me. And I already know something that helps your case."

"Yeah?"

"In the Dark Room, there were documents from contractors. Mr. Prescott was the one who built that bunker. Those documents show he built it for a purpose."

"No shit?" Frank leans forward, eyes growing wide. "How did you find that out?"

"I can't tell you. You just have to, well, trust me."

He grins, but it isn't malicious or taunting. "I do. God help me, I do. I don't know why, but I can tell what you're saying is the truth."

"So, now you have to tell me. What information were you looking for?"

Frank pauses. He reaches for his beer and takes a long sip, eyes shutting. When he's done, his fingers tap against the neck of the bottle. "In my line of work, you get to know people. And, you get to know all their dirty little secrets."

Max frowns. "In your line of— do you mean drug-dealing?"

"I prefer drug connoisseur." 

"Ha-ha. But what do drugs have to do with it?"

"It's the  _kid. He's_ the chain that links Sean fuckin' Prescott and that Jefferson son of a bitch. That's why I broke into their fancy house. To find information on the kid. He's tied to this."

"What? What kid?" Max's stomach somersaults, a tremendous lurch in the pit of her gut. "Do you mean Nathan?"

Frank rubs the back of his neck. "No, no, no. Nathan isn't the only family disgrace." His smile grows wolfish. "I'm talking about  _Dean._ "

Max falls quiet. Frank is looking at her like he's sitting on a pot of gold, but she doesn't understand. 

"Dean Prescott?"

"Yeah, the Golden Boy himself. Mr. Homecoming King. Mr. I Wipe My Elitist Ass With Hundred-Dollar Bills." 

"But he's dead. He died a couple of years ago from a heart condition."

Frank laughs. It's so loud and so harsh that Max flinches. 

"Heart condition, huh? Yeah, I remember reading about that. Talk of the town, too. Poor bastard had some undiagnosed shit. A real tragedy."

"But not to you?"

"Like I said, in my line of work, I get to know people."

In her brain, Max physically feels something click.

She blinks. "Are you saying Dean did drugs?"

Frank throws his cigarette down and grinds it into the ground. "It wasn't a heart condition."

Max feels hot. "But - the newspapers said -"

"Don't you know anything about the Prescotts? They would walk to Hell and back to protect their perfect reputation. It's how they get all their goddamn money. Do you honestly think they would seriously let everybody know that their precious heir was a broken-up junkie?"

"Start from the beginning."

Frank sighs. "He started coming to me when he was fifteen. Good-looking kid, smart, everything Daddy wanted. I sold him weed for a couple months, and he came to me pretty regular. All the time, really. Said it took the edge off."

"I'm guessing he didn't stick to weed."

"Fuck no. He started asking for pills, stuff to help him study. He was obsessed with anything that could relax him or mellow him out. He was paying me big, too. He tipped like a fucking moron, flashing his money all over the place. Of course, he got hooked on the pills, and it was obvious whenever he showed up to meet me, he was buzzing on the stronger shit, too. By the time he's seventeen, the fucker is calling me every day, demanding shit and cussing me out when I tried to tell him I wasn't going to sell him stuff in bulk."

"What happened?"

"I start ignoring his calls. Then, one night, he shows up, buzzed out of his mind, and starts screaming at me. He was fuckin' obsessed with this one drug I had. Picture horse tranquilizer. You only could use it in super small doses, which I'd been giving him up until then. Suddenly, he wants me to give him all of it."

"Did you?"

"Fuck no! I asked him why he needed so much of it, and do you know what he said?"

"What?"

"He said that his  _old man_ needed it."

Max's lips part. "You're kidding me."

"He  _flipped_ , like he knew he slipped up and said something he shouldn't. So I asked him if the small doses that I'd been giving him were going to his old man too, and he said yes. Only, Golden Boy obviously sampled a little too much along the way.  _Obviously,_  he fucked up, bled all of his dad's supply dry and now needed me to replace it."

Max feels as though she's hearing this from far away. She knows what Frank is implying, she knows where this is heading.

"I told the kid to get the fuck out and never come back. But he ended up paying for a small dose, and he seemed okay, leaving with that much."

"What happened next?"

"What happened next?" Frank stands up, so suddenly that the deck chair falls backwards. His eyes flash with a desperate anger Max hasn't seen before. "The kid fucking  _died_. A fucking overdose. They cover it up, because God forbid the town find out the truth about their precious son."

"And they couldn't investigate where the drugs were going, or where they came from, because Mr. Prescott covered it up."

"Exactly. To save his own skin. It wasn't even about his kid." 

Max sways. Her head is spinning. This is all... too much, so much. Overwhelming in a way that makes her blood drum in her ears. 

"The drug that you were selling Dean, the drug he was using and giving to his father..."

"You got it."

"...It was the drug they used in the Dark Room. To use on the girls."

Frank looks at her, and in that moment, he somehow looks younger, his face soft with a vulnerability that catches them both off guard.

"I broke in to find concrete proof that the drug passed through the hands of Sean Prescott. I didn't find shit."

"And you can't tell the police about what happened with Dean, because you were the one giving him the drugs."

" _And_ because his snake of a fucking father will have me _assassinated_ or some shit, if he hears I'm trying to dig up old history."

"Frank, I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, well. This town has fucked me up in so many ways, I'm barely holding it together anymore."

"I need you to hold it together," Max says fiercely. "You can help me. There has to be some way to get the truth out there, to expose Mr. Prescott. I promise you, I will do everything in my power to find it."

Frank's smile is gentle and sad. "You're a good kid. Rachel would have liked you."

"I'm doing this for Rachel."

"I know. I trust you, Max. And, fuck, I'm not sure how much help I'll be, with Sean Prescott already coming after me for the break-in, but I'll do what I can. Here, actually, while I have the opportunity." He turns and disappears back into the trailer, and a few seconds later, comes back with a book that Max knows well.

"This is my account book." She watches him open it up to the first couple of pages, covered with his jaunty scrawl. "I wrote down every transaction I had with Dean. They won't be believed unless we find some other concrete proof that the cops can’t ignore; but you should take these, anyway. Never know when you might need it."

He tears out a few pages, and hands them to her.

"Thank you," Max says. "Seriously, Frank. This is such an amazing help." 

"Yeah, well." He clears his throat. "I couldn't save Rachel when it mattered. Maybe, by bringing this bastard down, that'll be some way I can redeem myself to her."

Max softens. "It wasn't your fault."

But he just smiles, tight and controlled, and goes back inside the trailer, shutting the door behind him. 

 

* * *

 

 

Miss Owens isn't that much older than her. She's mid-twenties, at the most, with bob-length auburn hair and warm, expressive eyes that light up when Max enters her office. It's impossibly tidy and impossibly pastel, and smells faintly of lemon and fancy hand soap. Sunlight streams through the windows and, after shaking Max's hand, Miss Owens shows her to the couch, a comfortable red loveseat that she sinks into.

There's a box of Kleenex on the ornate coffee table in front of her. They make her nervous. 

"Max, thank you so much for coming to see me. It's lovely to have you here."

Max almost pipes up that she was technically forced, but before she can, Miss Owens is handing her a cup of tea. She makes one for herself, in a bright polka-dot mug, and then drops into the armchair across from her, a notebook balanced neatly on her lap. 

Max feels out of place. Everything in here is in its place and effortlessly perfect, and she's not. She's barely holding together at the seams.

"So, Max. Over the next few weeks, we'll be getting to know each other and having some important conversations, exploring all sorts of avenues of thinking and feeling. I want you to know that this is a safe space for you. You can tell me anything, and in return, place all of your trust in me. I'm here to help you."

Max nods, and hopes it comes across as sincere. 

Miss Owens beams at her. "Tell me about yourself, Max."

Max shrugs. "You've already read my file."

"But I want to hear from you."

Max suppresses a sigh. "Um, I'm eighteen. I grew up here in Arcadia, moved to Seattle a few years ago, and now I'm back. Um, I'm an only child...?" 

"What do you like to do? What are your hobbies?"

"Photography. It's my favourite class and it's all I've ever been interested in, or good at."

"Do you want to be a photographer when you leave school?"

Mark Jefferson's face flashes across her mind. Her heart slams against her ribs and she's flinching before she can stop herself.  _Shit shit shit._

"Max? How are you feeling?"

"I'm... I'm fine."

"You reacted when I asked you whether you wanted to pursue photography post-Blackwell."

Max looks down at her mug. She imagines being swallowed whole by the contents and escaping this.

"I-I don't know," she replies quickly. "I'd like to be a photographer, or involved in it in some way."

But Miss Owens has her head tilted, and Max has already blown her intention be blasé and casual about this whole thing, in the hopes that Miss Owens would go to Principal Wells and explain that Max is perfectly fine.

"I don't want to talk about what happened," Max blurts. 

Miss Owens's answering smile is kind, and it does settle her, actually. "You don't have to talk about it now, or next week, or the week after that. I want you to discuss it when you're ready. But we will have to talk about it at some point, Max. You know that, don't you?"

Max bites her lip, and nods.

"For the rest of the session, how about we just get to know each other? Tell me about your favorite bands, books you like, places you want to go."

The next forty minutes go by quickly. Max only talks about music and English and Seattle, but when she leaves, she feels strange. Exposed in some way. She sees the bathroom and the blood on the floor and herself cowering behind the stall, sobbing into her knees, and she can see it all coming full-throttle for her. 

She's not ready at all. 

 

* * *

 

 

Nell isn't at the desk when Max arrives to the ward. It's another nurse, one with a familiar face who is just as familiar with her by now. She nods and points with her pen in the direction of Nathan's room, and Max goes.

The ward is bare without the decorations and the gaudy lights. Max is jarred by the realization that she kind of misses it. It's back to gray and pale blue and enamel white. 

She's only been walking a couple steps when she stops dead again. 

Nell is standing outside Nathan's room, and the door is shut. Her eyes are darting in a nervous kind of way, and she's talking with her hands. Max has only ever seen her do that in the weeks leading up to Christmas, when she was consumed with stress and seemed to be surviving on sheer mental strength alone. 

Max is close enough to hear the conversation she's having with the couple at the door. They have their backs to Max, but even so, she knows exactly who they are. 

"—which is why it would be so  _beneficial_ to Nathan's recovery if both of you, or one of you, were able to make it to a family group session," Nell is saying, and her voice sounds different, void of its usual spark and dry cheer. "I have seen him make outstanding progress in the months since he's been here. Your involvement in his recovery would only accelerate that progress."

The couple are both quite tall, but the man more so. He is thin and imposing, dressed in an immaculate, long dark coat, suit slacks, and polished dress shoes. His hair is balding at the back, a reddish-brown, combed neatly over to one side. She is willowy, with a posture fit for a Queen, sporting a long, snow-white coat, black tights and heels that Max would break her neck by just standing in. Her honey-colored hair is short, but thick, styled well. 

Max's pulse races. 

The man speaks, something low and rumbling, a voice like a warlord, and Max watches as Nell's face falls. 

"That's your choice," says Nell, and she's clearly trying to hold herself back. She looks ready to explode. "I'm just telling you the truth." 

The woman's head jerks a little from side to side when she speaks. Nathan does the same thing. 

Nell nods. "Of course. Thanks for coming today, at least." 

Then the couple turns around, and Max feels like a deer in headlights. 

He's older than she expected, a lot older, actually, face set with deep lines, his nose large, and his mouth a little saggy. He's clean-shaven, wearing narrow glasses. His eyes are steady and emotionless. 

She's younger than Max expected, with a high forehead, crimson-red lips and a pinched expression. 

There is nothing of Nathan in his father, but she sees similarities in his mother. They have the same thin lips, and the same nose, and both of them share that look of always looking ready to argue. 

There is nothing warm or parental about either of them. Max tries to picture one of them holding a baby, or playing with Harry, or even smiling the way parents do at a child they adore. The images are blurred, wrong, and cold in her mind. 

The woman marches past her like she's an insect not even worth stepping on, or maybe she doesn't notice her at all. 

Mr. Prescott stares at her as he passes. It's almost like it's in slow-motion, and it's horrible. Violating, in some deeply unsettling type of way. It's not threatening, or anything like that, it is in fact a cold kind of curiosity. Like Max is a business contract that he needs to know everything about.

A tiny smile curls his lips, but then he's gone, following his wife out the doors. 

When Max can get herself to move again, Nell is running her hands over her face.

"Fuck, shit, fuck."

"Are you okay?"

"Sorry, yeah, I was just holding in all of my swear words around those two. It was  _so_ hard." She huffs and takes a moment to gather herself. After a moment, her smile returns, and she's the Nell that Max knows. "Happy New Year, Max!"

"Happy New Year." Max turns and looks down the hallway, like the traces of the Prescotts are still there. 

"Was that...?"

"The happiest, loveliest, warmest couple in the country? Why, yes! Indeed it was." Nell makes a frustrated noise. "They show up here once in a blue fucking moon and all they care about is what medication Nathan is on and whether it has any side effects."

"They're... scary."

"You're telling me. The way Scarlett Prescott just  _looks_ at you, like she's figuring out how to dissect you in a lab." Nell waves her hands. "Sorry, Max. I shouldn't be talking about this."

"It's okay. I'm totally here if you want to vent."

"Thanks, sweetie. It's just hard, when relatives won't make the effort. They aren't the first, and they sure as hell won't be the last, but still. Nathan's come so far." She shoots Max a look of great disbelief. "He came to my  _group_ last week! I nearly fell out of my chair."

"He really went?"

"Said nothing and glared at everybody the whole time, of course, but still, what  _progress!_ "

"That's amazing," Max smiles. A small flower of pride is opening in her chest. "I wonder why he went, in the end."

Then Nell gets this  _look_ on her face, and she's grinning in a way that makes Max flush, and she seriously regrets what she just said.

"He said you asked him to."

"Nell—"

Nell just winks at her, and then turns to knock on Nathan's door. 

"Chuckles! Max is here." 

The door opens, and he strains his head around the doorway as if to check for himself. Max wonders if he's looking to see whether his parents have left. 

When he sees her, something pretty incredible happens. He smiles, just a little, barely there, but a smile nonetheless. 

"Hey," Max smiles back. 

He follows her to the common area, and there's still the trace of a smile lingering around his mouth when they sit. 

"Chicken wrap," Max says, passing the wrapped sandwich across the table. 

"Two and a half weeks without actual food." He stares at the sandwich like it's been hand crafted by God. "Thank fuck."

She studies him. He looks like he hasn't been sleeping well, and his eyes are a little red, like he's been rubbing them. She checks his knuckles. No cuts, no bruises, almost fully healed. 

She realizes he's staring right back, and she starts.

"You look like shit," he remarks.

"Wowser, thanks."

He frowns. "Chill. I just meant you look tired."

"First week back is always stressful." She reaches up to tidy her hair, self-conscious in a way she's not used to here. "So, I heard you went to Community Group."

Nathan rolls his eyes, and it makes her laugh.

"Don't look so fucking proud," he says. "I didn't do it 'cos you told me to."

"I'm sure." She feels a strangely satisfying sense of delight at the way he flushes. "So, how was it?"

"Amazing."

" _Really?_ "

He sends her a dead-eye stare. "No. What the fuck."

Max leans on her hand. "Did you at least try?"

He sighs. "Isn't  _going_ enough?"

"I guess so. But maybe we should make joining in your next goal."

"You sound like Nell. Goal this, strategy that."

"It works."

He finishes the sandwich, sweeping the crumbs off the table with an expression that states he doesn't believe her for a second. 

Max glances down the corridor, and the sight of the payphones makes her smile. 

"Hope I didn't, like, bore you."

She flicks her gaze back to him. "What?"

He shrugs awkwardly. "On the phone."

"You didn't bore me at all. It was really nice."

He presses his lips together. "Can I still call you now that you're back?"

"Of course. We can stick with our usual times."

"Cool."

There's been a shift. The phone calls, maybe even the distance, it's changed things. Nathan is about as relaxed as someone like Nathan can get, and for the first time, Max truly feels like they're friends. The feeling is a warm glow in her stomach. 

That first meeting, way back when, it feels like a lifetime ago. 

"I saw your parents. Right before I came."

Nathan has his hand pressed up against his forehead, leaning on his elbow. He says nothing.

"You look like your mom."

"Did they talk to you?"

"No. But, uh, your dad stared at me?"

"He does that."

"Did they visit you?"

"They brought me clothes, some stuff from my room at home."

"That's nice."

"No, it's not." He runs his hands through his hair. "It's, like, all of my fucking stuff. I know what they want. They want me to stay here forever. I've basically been moved out."

Once upon a time, Max might have said something like,  _"Oh, Nathan, that's not true"_. Now, she knows better. 

"That's horrible."

"It's my dad's idea. My mom does whatever the fuck he wants to do. He wants me to move out? Fine. I'm never going back there, anyway."

"You're obviously not going to be here forever. Have you thought about where you might want to go someday?" 

"Seattle."

Max blinks. "Seattle?"

"You've told me enough about it. It'd be a bit shitty not to show me around once I get out."

"You... want me to show you Seattle?"

"Sure. Or wherever. I just need to get the fuck out of this town."

He sounds like Chloe. It's a surprising stab. 

Suddenly, all Max can think about is her conversation with Frank, and what he told her, and all of the dusty skeletons in the Prescott closet.

Max wonders if Nathan knows the truth. 

"Nathan?"

"Mm?"

"Can I ask you some questions?"

His eyebrows raise. "Questions?"

"Yeah. I-If that's okay."

"About what?"

"Dean."

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would not have been written were it not for these three extremely amazing things:  
> 1) The absolutely unbelievable feedback that you guys continue to bless me with. I can't thank you enough, and I am really, REALLY overwhelmed by it. Thank you profoundly for liking this piece of rambling madness!  
> 2) My always fantastic beta, Kittiara. I always feel twenty times better posting a chapter, knowing her expert eyes have been over it <3  
> 3) The jar of Nutella that I consumed while writing this. Thank you Nutella, ya gave me strength.
> 
> I was so honoured (read: mind-boggingly overwhelmed) to catch a few pieces of gorgeous, beautiful art for this fic, and again, I can't thank these extraordinary artists enough, or express how COOL that is!!! Make sure to go and send love to  
> [ caulfiellds ](http://caulfiellds.tumblr.com) & [ jocos-ity ](http://jocos-ity.tumblr.com) for their oustanding pieces. 
> 
> This chapter features a heavy dose of detective!Max, which was super fun to write! Can't wait to hear your thoughts on this one! Hope you enjoy! ♥
> 
> // long-ass author's note nobody cares about // ;)

 

"He's dead. I don't see what there is to talk about." 

Max knows how, and she knows when. But the  _why_ hangs elusive, floating just out of reach, begging to be known. The why of everything, of why Dean used all of the Dark Room drugs, of why he would risk his father's wrath—of why he was even involved in the Dark Room in the first place. 

She remembers the construction papers, but when were they dated? Such a minor detail at the time, now so important. If it had only been recently built, specifically in time for Mr. Jefferson's arrival to Arcadia, then it's going to be harder linking Dean to his activities. 

The construction papers are basically unreachable at the police station, but there has to be other copies somewhere else. It's just one more ring on the ladder Max has to climb. 

There is a story here. It whirrs like electricity and pulses in the air. Rachel Amber peers at her from behind a glass door to a locked room, and next to her, Dean Prescott stands with his arms folded, face soft where Nathan's grows hard, one eyebrow raised expectantly as if to say,  _We're waiting._

It feels like when Chloe was here, typing fervently at her laptop as the spider web of Rachel's disappearance had begun to unravel like loose thread before their eyes. Just like one of their old childhood adventures, but so much more. They cracked a case that the Arcadia police department weren't even close to understanding.  _They_ did it, together: two teenage girls from nowhere America. And this is bigger. 

With every clue, with every coincidence that clicks eagerly into place, Max feels closer to her than ever before. Like following a path towards a burning, bright light, Chloe is with her every step of the way, following her up that ladder and urging her to reach the top. She  _wants_ her to do this. Max owes it to her, and to everyone who got their name on a binder. 

The Dark Room isn't over yet. In a lot of ways, it may be only just beginning. 

Max hooks his gaze. "How old were you?"

He pauses, jaw clenched.

She doesn't expect him to answer, but he does. A moment later, he grits his teeth and mumbles, "Fifteen."

Fifteen wasn't that long ago. It's trying to picture him as a child that jars her. She can't picture him as anything but he is now, stony and immovable against the world's current. She wonders suddenly, whether he ever played with toys or eagerly stayed up for Santa at night, tossing and turning like normal kids do. She knows he must have, once, but she gets the feeling that Nathan's childhood—what semblance of it he had—ended a lot quicker than other people's. 

"I'm sorry," she says. 

He sniffs. "Wasn't your fault."

"Yeah, but, to lose a brother...It's terrible. I'm so sorry that it happened to you."

He says nothing. Across the room, a young man with scars on his face is waving at the lighthouse. 

"What was he like?" Max asks.

Nathan scratches at the table with one fingernail and does not look at her. The muscles in his arms and back are rigid. 

"Were you... close?"

"Once," Nathan answers. His face is blank. "A long time ago."

Max nods. Her heart is racing a little. She didn't expect him to let her pursue this conversation. She wonders whether he's come to trust her, and how much. The idea of him trusting her fills her with a strange warmth. It makes asking him about all of this feel less intrusive. 

"He was protective," Nathan tells her. "And he looked out for me, especially when I was a kid. I had a lot of shit to deal with."

"Where were your parents?"

His smirk is a furious twist. "Where do you think?" The nail pushes deeper into the wood. "Nobody likes the family defect."

"You're not—"

"When I was Harry's age, my mom shoved me into the office of a child psych. She pushed money into his hand, pointed at me, and said, 'Fix him'. Then, she walked out." He expels a heavy sigh. "You can imagine her disappointment when she found out that I couldn't be. Not like she wanted."

"Nathan."

"I went from therapist to therapist, doctor to doctor. After a while, they stopped caring. I wasn't what they wanted, and they treated me like it. But Dean was the only one who didn't look at me like I was some big fucking mistake walking around. Back then, anyway."

"He sounds like he was a good brother."

Nathan swallows. "He took my iPod one day, and he downloaded all of these— these fucking whale songs. He'd been on the internet, reading all of the articles that my parents didn't give a shit about. He said that they were, like, soothing or whatever. Helped other kids like me." 

Max feels a soft blow to her gut. 

The whale songs, she remembers them. The only echo of softness and tranquillity in a dark and disconcerting dorm room.

"But he changed?"

"Should've expected it. He was the favourite. My parents were so  _proud_." His finger picks up speed. The bruises on his knuckles pop. He scratches at the wood like he's trying to scrub it clean. "It's what my father does. The worst possible thing that could ever happen to you, is my dad liking you. He  _twists_ people, makes them think that the only fuckin' right way to live, or think, is his way. After a while, you'll do anything. Anything to impress him. I've seen it with the people who work for him. It's ten times  _worse_ when it's family." 

Nathan's eyes have dimmed irrevocably. He looks worn out, tired and stressed in a way that tugs at Max's heart, and she feels a blazing guilt for even bringing this up in the first place.

She can't stop herself. She reaches across the table and wraps her fingers around his hand, stilling it, making it stop its weighted etching. His fingers are calloused and trembling. His wrists are thin and kind of cold. He stops, freezes really, and there is a strange impasse. 

"It's okay," she murmurs. 

His fingers curve up and towards her wrist, and twitch there, against the skin. He gives her palm a light squeeze, nails pressing in half-crescent moons. 

After a small chunk of silence, she pulls back, more out of anxiety that an orderly will come over and tell her off. She doesn't know if there are rules about touching or lingering hands. She never thought they would get to the point where it would matter. 

Her hands fall back to her lap and she clears her throat. "Go on."

Nathan's head is tilted and he's looking at her now, his restlessness controlled. "It went to his head," he tells her, and Max has to scurry for a second to remember what they were talking about. "He was being groomed for the family business, and he loved every second. It was fuckin' unbearable. He must've just liked rubbing it in my face. He was everything my father wanted, and I was so far down the wishlist that I just felt like their fuckin' roommate." 

Max nods along, taking it all in. "Sibling rivalry?"

" _I_ wasn't competing," Nathan says flatly. "But he was. He always had to be better." Nathan squeezes his eyes shut, looking as though he has a particularly excruciating headache. "Fucking asshole."

"Do you mind if I ask how he died?" Max asks. She knows the answer, but wants to hear it from him. The back of her neck is prickling. 

Nathan is staring at something she cannot see. A memory. The lights of it quiver behind his eyes. 

"May, a couple of years ago," he says after a while. "It was hot out, and he was sleeping late. I was in my room and figured out that he'd taken one of my cameras. I was  _pissed_ , planning on busting into his room and dousing him with water, something to wake him up. His room was right next to mine, so I kicked the door open, I went in, and—" Nathan's face darkens. She watches him swallow. "The first thing that hit me was the fuckin' smell."

Max's gut clenches. "Oh, no."

"He'd puked all over himself." Nathan sits up straighter. "I grabbed his shoulders and shook him, but he didn't wake up. Then, my sister came in." He winces. "I just remember her screaming."

Max feels dizzy. She can see it, a devastating image in her mind's eye. She can't even imagine a kid having to go through that. "I'm... I'm _so sorry_ , Nathan." She presses her lips together, tongue like sandpaper. She knows the answer to her next question, but again, she has to hear it from him. "H-How did he die?"

"Some heart thing."

"Oh."

"But that's not the truth."

Max's gaze snaps to him. "What?"

But Nathan just looks calm, as if he had just mentioned something about the weather, or a show on TV. 

Max blinks, taken aback. "You— You don't think that he died from a heart condition?"

Nathan pauses, and then, he leans forward, hands splayed on the table. "Do you know the first thing my father did, right after he found my brother lying in a pool of his own puke?"

Max shakes her head, slow. Words escape her.

"He gathered almost all of the police department in our living room, and he locked the door." He flops back. "That's not normal."

The moment hangs. And hangs. 

"You— Nathan," Max stutters. She didn't prepare for this outcome. "Do you think that your father—"

"Kids!" Max jumps as the cheerful voice floods her space. Nell's hand lands on her shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze. "Sorry, but time's up."

Nathan gets up slowly, almost dragging his body upright, and Max has no choice but to follow. 

He stands there rubbing his neck, like he wants to say something, but Nell's presence hinders whatever words he has ghosting across his mind. Max meets his gaze and smiles, nods once. 

He seems suddenly tired, unsettled in a way that causes guilt to bloom in Max's gut. She shouldn't have asked him. What he told her is undoubtedly more than he's told most people. 

For the first time in a long time, he truly looks lonely.

Max watches him wander down the hall, silently willing him to glance back, just to send her some sign that he's okay.

He doesn't.

 

* * *

 

Her sleeping pattern is haphazard. There is a vague recollection of what deep sleep used to be and how it felt, because now, it only ever feels like she's underwater, sleeping under the thinnest veil of consciousness that easily snaps and breaks with the smallest of disturbances. Someone turning over in the next room, an owl outside calling out from a tree branch. Her eyes permanently feel sore and full of grit, and her head full of a mist that clouds her focus. 

If she sleeps at all, she only can do three hours or so, and wakes up more tired than when she went to sleep. She gets most of her rest now through naps after class ends, and finds herself going back to her dorm room earlier and earlier these days, just to shut her door and get away. 

The nights are still frigid and windy, but Max always wakes up unbearably sticky, sweat plastering her clothes to her skin and running in beads down her back. 

It's the nightmares. They pull her in as if she has a rope fastened around her neck, and pull her down under, into shadows and ugly, twisted visions that loom over her in frightening caricatures and make her bolt upright in bed, clutching her neck and prickling with terror.

Chloe's scream is often the soundtrack to whatever is going on. At least it starts off like her scream, but soon twists into something entirely different, an overpowering wail of a hysterical banshee that pulses over shooting images of junkyards and dead animals, of Nathan with a gun to his head, separated from her by a glass partition. She bangs on the glass, yelling, but he never hears her. Chloe with her name in a red binder, sobbing for Max to help her. Kate, spreading her arms and leaping off a rooftop. 

Max, bound to a chair in a distorted, blinding-white room, as a needle inches closer and closer to her neck. Only, she cannot scream. It gets caught in her throat, stuck, like someone's slit it. 

She jerks awake.

It's still early. Outside her window, the sun is setting, slipping behind the clouds. She's only been asleep for a few hours at most. A freezing-cold, prickling fear has curled itself around her stomach.

Someone is banging on her door. 

A glimpse of herself in the mirror as she gets up to answer causes her to grimace. 

On the other side, stands Victoria, her phone in one hand. "Hey," she says. Her eyes drop and glide up, carrying out one of her usual once-overs. "Did I... wake you?"

"No, no, it's— well, yeah. But it's okay."

Victoria stares. "It's, like, the middle of the afternoon." 

"I know. I was just dozing, sorry." She doesn't know why she's apologising. Something about Victoria has always made her to do it automatically. 

She looks much better, the Christmas break obviously doing her some good. She's immaculate as ever in one of her beloved cashmere sweaters and designer jeans, her phone sitting in a dazzling, jewelled phone case. The bags under her eyes are lesser, and her hair richer with warmer, honey highlights.

Victoria peers over her shoulder, wrinkling her nose up as she squints into Max's room. "Jeez, depressing much?" Then, she's gliding past her, marching inside and over to the windows, where she opens the blinds and leans forward to push open the windows. Light floods into the room, as well as a refreshing rush of cool, evening air. 

Max rolls her eyes. "No, seriously, do come in."

Victoria takes a seat on the couch and tucks her legs up underneath her. It should probably feel weirder that she just barged in here and made herself at home, but it isn't. Sure, they aren't friends, but they aren't enemies, either. Both of them know it. After everything that's happened, the energy it used to take to actively dislike someone feels so pointless now. 

Max sits down on her bed and moves right up against the cushions at the wall, rubbing at her eyes. 

"I came here to ask you something," Victoria tells her, after a beat. 

"Okay."

"It's about Nathan."

"It is?" The surprise in her voice is there before she can mask it.

Victoria's eyes narrow. "Contrary to what you might believe, Max, I still care about him. A lot."

"I know you do. I never thought you didn't, Victoria."

The defensive hardness of her shoulders sinks, and she relaxes. "It just happened so fast," she says. "And got— fuck, so out of control. One minute, I'm texting him to meet me after class, everything's normal, and then, he's having a meltdown and being taken away in  _handcuffs_ . And  _Mr. Jefferson?_  Max, I had no idea."

"I believe you," Max insists. "And it wasn't your fault."

" _Yes_ , it was." Victoria exclaims, her voice straddling shame. "I was— _am_ —his best friend. The signs were there, but I didn't look hard enough. He was coming apart and I wasn't there for him. It's  _my fault_  that he's in there, Max. That's why I haven't been able to even stomach the thought of going to see him. He must _hate_  me."

"Victoria, I don't think he could ever hate you," Max replies. "And it really isn't your fault. He's not angry with you, not at all."

"Two years ago," Victoria starts, and it sounds like there's a lump in her throat. "He made me promise to not let his parents put him away. He hates hospitals, ever since he had to go to so many when he was a kid. I broke that promise, Max. If I had seen what was coming, he'd be here right now, still in school. And—" Her voice cracks. "Your friend would still be alive."

Max softens. "No, she wouldn't," she whispers.

Victoria raises her eyebrows. "What are you talking about? Of course she'd be here."

"I know a thing or two about fate," Max replies sadly. "I think everyone has a time to go, no matter the circumstances. If the bathroom didn't happen, I feel like something even worse would have happened to Chloe."

"You really believe that?" Victoria's expression is veering on disbelief. "Fate? Are you serious?"

"I have to believe in it. It's the only way any of this makes sense." She's not lying. 

Victoria is silent for a long moment. Outside, she can hear the rising shrill tones of Courtney and Taylor, knocking on her door, looking for her. But she doesn't show any interest in moving. 

"I wanted to thank you," Victoria says then, out of nowhere.

Max blinks, startled. "Thank me?"

Victoria twists her fingers together, and for once, everything about her is soft and placid. "For visiting him," she explains. She looks up. "I doubt many people do."

Max shakes her head, and watches the knowing sadness flash across Victoria's face.

"Just me," Max tells her. "And Harry. Who, by the way, is totally adorable."

Victoria smiles then, with genuine affection. "Nathan won't ever admit it, but he loves him to death. And he worries. So much." She sighs, running her hand through her hair. "Tell me the truth, Max. Is he okay in there?"

Max can't help the smile that twitches at her lips. "Honestly, he's fine. He's doing a lot better."

Victoria frowns. "Max, I can handle it. How is he really?"

"I told you, he's fine. I was there yesterday. He's taking his meds, and he goes to group therapy."

Victoria's eyes swell to the size of saucers, almost comically. "Oh my God. Are you kidding me?"

"It's... fairly recent. But he does go."

"I can't believe it," Victoria says. Outside in the hall, Courtney and Taylor are growing more concerned. Seconds later, Victoria's phone starts to ring. She shoots it an impatient glare and pushes the button to end the call."

In the hall, Courtney gasps. "Oh my God, she cut me off!"

Victoria stands. "Back to my question," she says. 

Max nods, waiting.

"I..." Victoria breaks off. A few seconds of silence that drag out. "Max, I want to go with you next week."

"Really?" 

"God, don't look so surprised."

"I'm not, I'm— that would be so awesome, Victoria," Max insists, smiling. "He's going to freak out."

Victoria stares.

"Oh! Oh, no, I meant freak out in a good way."

"So, will I meet you or...?"

"I get the bus from town at three thirty on Wednesdays. You can meet me at the bus stop."

"Fine. I guess I'll see you then." Victoria moves towards the door, and before she turns the handle, glances back and nods. "And thanks, Max."

The door shuts, and Max listens to Taylor and Courtney's surprised exclamations until Victoria's door bangs, and all is quiet again.

 

* * *

 

Night comes, and so does the threat of sleep and the nightmares that haunt it. The mere thought of them wear her out, make her heart deflate like an old balloon.

She spends half an hour googling ways to avoid bad dreams, and how to achieve the before unappreciated state of falling into a deep, impenetrable sleep. Poring through page after page, the bulk of the recommendation are mostly the same. She goes for a long walk around campus, until the cold hair has her skin shaking over her bones. She takes a hot shower and afterwards, borrows some of Alyssa's camomile tea. In her room, she turns on her fairy lights and closes the blinds, waters Lisa and then climbs into bed.

She lies on her back, eyes closed, the dim lights illuminating her eyelids pink, and she focuses on her breathing.

Her fingers itch with the sudden and unexplainable urge to call Nathan. 

She glances at the clock. Ten. Her heart sinks.

She wonders what he's doing. She's always imagined the wards at night as being peaceful. The later it gets, the more peaceful it becomes. She imagines the last queues lining up for night meds, a handful of sleepy patients crowded in front of late-night television, being gently ushered to their rooms by the orderlies. She wonders how late Nell works, if she's able to switch off the second she steps through the door to go home.

She thinks of Nathan, and can only picture him in his room. The lights are low, and he probably has his jacket off, slung lazily over the back of the chair. He's sitting on his bed, and in his hands, she visualizes the thumbed-through second Baker book, and he's engrossed in it. His head is bracketed by the photos Max has given him, stuck up in neat rows on the wall. She wonders where her picture is, how often he glances at it, or if he looks at it at all. 

She wonders how well he sleeps. If he has nightmares and, if so, what kind. 

She wishes it was six, or seven, or eight, because she wants to call him. 

She lies there for another twenty minutes, willing sleep to come until she gets fed up. Her eyelids seem to have lost the ability to get heavy, and her brain just won't  _turn off_. It burns with picture after picture, voice after voice. Max leans over and pulls open the second drawer next to her bed, fumbling amongst old notebooks and paper clips until her fingers close around the hard leather of Frank's account book.

She hasn't looked through it yet, saving it for some ridiculous opportunity, like Chloe bursting through the door.

No use waiting for that.

The account book begins in mid 2008, so finding the entries for 2010 only requires her to flick through the first ten pages or so, but before she does, she goes to the most recent pages.

Back, to just a few months ago.

 _Bulldog_ is scrawled in Frank's messy script, numerous times over several months.

Max exhales, long and heavy.  _Chloe._

Her fingertips trace the lines, round and round every letter, every number. 

A three-thousand dollar loan. Max's chest tightens, and if she had the energy to cry, she probably would. Chloe's big plan, her plan for her and Rachel, for their big, beautiful adventure in Los Angeles.

It seems like a lifetime ago.

She can't help but wonder how things might have turned out differently, if fate had shown uncharacteristic mercy, and made another decision. 

It takes all of her strength to leave these pages behind, and return to the beginning.

She sifts through the notes sticking out of the back of the book until she finds the familiar list of names. It's the same as last time.

 _Chihuahua, Bobtail, Shiba, Husky..._ Max scans the names, one after the other, her breath held in her throat. 

So much like the last time, but so different. This time, she's on her own. 

She recalls the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through Chloe's windows, at the huge boards of notes, photos, leads. It probably should have felt like kid stuff, another game they used to play. But it felt authentic. In that moment, they were probably the best versions of themselves. Max and Chloe, partners in time.

And now, Chloe is on her couch. She sits with her arms stretched out at either side, feet kicked up on the coffee table, her hair a vivid pop of blue in the soft shadows. 

"That side must be all the recent clients." Her voice stings in the most tragic, nostalgic way. It pulls at Max likes she's made of thread. "Turn it over, Super Max!"

Max flips the page over to check the back and, sure enough, there is another list. This one is certainly older, the writing more faded, clients fitted tightly together. Frank has had to go over some names again, the pen digging into the paper.

Across the room, Chloe's grin sings of adventure, fun, and a story to tell. 

Max allows her eyes to shutter shut for a second. Chloe is dead, Chloe is gone.

She runs her eyes down the list, until she finds the name. It seems to jump out at her, the letters burning off the paper. 

 _COLLIE,_ it reads.  _DEAN._

Chloe is sitting backwards on her desk chair, her arms slung across the back, feet jittering excitedly. "Bingo!"

Max slips the list back into the account book, and starts looking.

There's nothing until December, 2008. There, she finds Dean Prescott's very first purchase. 

 

_12/03, 4:50PM, BEACH_

_COLLIE, 3g weed_

 

Max leafs through the pages, as Dean's secrets expose themselves to her. Frank was right. He started off with weed, small amounts, right up until 2009. That's when the lists begin to get longer, when he buys a lot more than he used to, when something even in the way Frank writes his name appears to change. Before, it was written like all the others, something simple and businesslike about it. As the months go by, Frank seems more heavy handed. He's annoyed about the constant transactions. Sometimes, when there is a deal every single day, he just scrawls a simple ' _DP'_ , his exasperation almost tangible.

Frank always seemed like the kind of drug dealer who actually hated too  _much_ business, particularly from the same person,  _certainly_ from a Prescott. It's something he must have been paranoid about. 

Max pictures Dean sneaking off to get his drugs, all ambition and lazy, wealthy self-confidence. He's probably too eager, but nervous, too, as he shoots darting, paranoid glances over his shoulder every two seconds in nervous agitation of having been followed. Sean Prescott is the type to have henchmen. 

Chloe is next to her, reading over her shoulder. "Fucking Prescotts," she hisses. "More skeletons than a cemetery."

A migraine is brewing at the front of Max's brain, a twinge so painful, it's almost hot.  _Not real, not real, not real._ She's not supposed to feel unsettled with Chloe, she never felt this anxious, never experienced this state of feeling dizzy and panicked, all at the same time. 

She keeps reading. 

2010 reads like a novel. Dean becomes a high-paying and repetitive customer.

 

_01/23, 11:50PM, Old Barn_

_COLLIE, three pills of oxy, 3g cocaine, .25 ketamine_

 

_01/29, 2:15AM, Lighthouse_

_COLLIE, 2g cocaine, .25 ketamine, two pills of E_

 

_02/14, 9:10PM, Blackwell_

_COLLIE, .35 ketamine, PMA_

 

_02/20, 10:40AM, Up All Nite Donuts_

_COLLIE, .25 ketamine, one pill oxy, 2g cocaine_

 

His last entry reads with all of the ominous weight that Max had expected it to. Frank's handwriting is almost illegible, as if he was writing in a hurry. There's a degree of amused disbelief about the way he writes:

 

_05/02, 8:30PM, Old Barn_

_COLLIE, .25 ketamine -- but wanted whole supply._

 

"Ketamine," Max says aloud. Her breath rattles like metal in her chest cavity.

She feels it then, so real. So terribly, frighteningly real. The sting of a needle against her neck, before she's falling in slow-motion, her body growing heavy and rigid, like her limbs have solidified and been melted into goo all at once. She falls down onto dry earth, head spinning, tongue going numb.

Chloe falls in slow-motion, too. The gun shot rings like an alarm in her head. 

Max's stomach gives one tremendous  _lurch_ , before she's yanking the door open and sprinting down the hall. She makes it to the toilet just in time, dropping heavily to her knees on the icy tiles, and vomiting up what little she had to eat that day. 

She's trembling, shivering like an abandoned dog.

Frank was right, he was so right. Even if Max knew it at the back of her mind, in some small and visceral way, it's just been confirmed. 

No one buys such bulk amounts of ketamine for personal use, no one. 

The Dark Room and its shadows seep across the darkness and flood her completely. 

Max opens her mouth, tasting acid, and speaks out loud to the empty bathroom. "Mr. Jefferson wasn't  _in_ Arcadia four years ago. I don't know if the bunker was even built then. It can't have been Dean." 

In her mind's eye, the clues, the faces, they fall and stack on top of each other like colorful Tetris. 

She flushes the toilet and clambers shakily to her feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her throat aches.

When Max turns, Chloe is sitting on the counter of the sinks, swinging both legs. There's a small, pinhole-sized bullet hole in the centre of her forehead.

"He was supplying someone," she says. Her voice is around Max, rather than near her. "But who? And why?"

Max needs to get her hands on the other binders, the ones from before Jefferson came back to Arcadia Bay. She needs to figure out when and  _where_  they were drugged. 

_Could Sean Prescott have been...?_

The walls of the Dark Room are growing. They stretch out wide, moving farther and farther out, and they aren't stopping. 

Max braces herself against the stall door, her head whirling. 

This is bigger than just Mr. Jefferson. But how big?

Chloe is gone, but her voice is still here, echoing like music in Max's mind. 

"So?" she says. "Solve the case, hippie!" 

Max brushes her teeth, and wanders back to her room.

At 11:15, she calls Warren.

"Hey," He sounds half-asleep, but cheerful as ever. She pictures him sitting up in bed, petting his hair down like she can see it. "What's up, Max? Can't sleep?"

"Not a wink," she answers.

He waits, and when she can't find the words, his voice sounds closer to the receiver, laced with worry.

"Max? Are you okay?"

"Can you meet me after class tomorrow?"

"Of course, who are you talking to. But how come?"

Max sucks in a breath. Frank's account book sits like a dirty secret on her pillow. 

"Because I need your help."

 

* * *

 

Photography is her first class of the day, and Max spends the entirety of it sitting at her desk and imagining the bell ringing, feeling like it never will. 

The weeks going by have caused Ms. Donnelly to ease up on her perpetual vigilance  when it comes to the events of last semester, and fortunately, her awkwardness with the class has faded with familiarity. Her genuine prowess as a teacher catches Max off guard. She is almost unbelievably prolific about everything from photographic techniques to the ins-and-outs of every camera that's probably ever existed, and can racket off facts and expertise like it's all she knows. She has an impeccable eye for detail, and always seems to find something  _more_ that you could do with your photo, big or small. And, unlike Jefferson, whose fame and ' _Jeffersonness'_ had made him imposing, she's remarkably approachable these days. After her lectures, she goes around to everyone individually, getting to know them as separate artists.  She even has a way of making her criticism uplifting. 

Max watches as Alyssa comes into her own and develops a new style, spurred on by Ms. Donnelly's faith in her, and how Daniel always puts up his hand now, and no longer displays the crestfallen expression he used to whenever he got the answer wrong. 

Ms. Donnelly, incredibly,  _loves_ Max's tendency towards selfies. She smiles at Max's portfolio and uses words like  _unique, innovative, imagination_. 

Max just wishes she could find the energy to get  _back_ to feeling as invested in her photography as she used to be. She still takes a lot of pictures, but there's a distance that wasn't there before. She's afraid, because it's becoming difficult to remember what it felt like to get excited about a good shot. And that just makes her more afraid. It's a constant cycle, an anxious whisper that spills in her ear. 

It's why she feels a flicker of dread when Ms. Donnelly asks to see her after class. 

If she's going to kick her out or something, Max honestly thinks she wouldn't be devastated.

Ms. Donnelly is the kind of teacher who sits on her desk, and seems to become a couple of years younger when she does. She smiles at Max when she approaches, but it does little to calm the swell of foreboding building inside her.

"I won't keep you long," Ms. Donnelly says. "I just have something I'd like you to think about."

"Oh, okay."

"Your, um, previous teacher," Her cheeks color slightly, before she seems to be trying overly-hard to compose herself; "had talked to you guys about the DeYoung Museum's “Everyday Heroes” photography contest, right?"

More dread. "Yeah. But the museum cancelled it, uh, when—"

"Yes," Ms. Donnelly cuts her off quickly. "Well, I just got word that they have decided to run a new national contest. The deadline is March 1st, and like last time, the winner gets to go to San Francisco."

"What's the theme?"

"Just one word. 'Inspire'. I'm going to tell the rest of the class tomorrow, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up first."

"Me? Why?"

"Because I think you could win this!" Ms. Donnelly says, smiling brightly. "Of course, everyone in this class is extraordinarily talented, but I can't help but think that your personal style is so suited to this particular theme, Max. I'd really like you to enter."

Max wants to tell her no. Point-blank, bluntly, no. The knot in her stomach wants her to run. She doesn't really want anything to do with photography contests. All it is, is more pressure, more stress, and another deadline that she'll surely mess up. Plus, she wants to tell Ms. Donnelly that she's wrong. What the hell would she photograph? A selfie? That's more self-obsessed than inspiring. 

Ms. Donnelly seems to read her reluctance, because she tilts her head and says, "The least you could do is think about it."

'Think about it' has always seemed to Max like a polite way of saying 'Hell no', so right now, it seems appropriate. "Okay," she replies. "I'll think about it."

"Great! I hope you submit a photo, Max, I really do. And don't worry, you have loads of time."

There it is, that  _time_ thing again.

Ms. Donnelly meant it to be comforting, but Max feels anything but.

 

* * *

 

Normally, she'd be heading back to her dorm right now, but instead she's sitting in Ms. Owens's too-bright, too-sweet and too-pastel office, feeling awkward and shivery. Outside, it's just begun to rain, a gray, slick drizzle that melts down the windows and provides the only note of music in the silence. 

Ms. Owens is writing, teeth sunk into her lip in concentration. That kind of worries Max a little. She's not even started to talk to her, and she's already penning an entire novel about what must obviously be wrong with her. 

The "How was your day?" is almost so quiet that Max misses it.

"Sorry?"

"How was your day?"

"Oh. It was fine."

Ms. Owens stills her pen, at last, and then sits up with a smile, her folder balanced against her knee. "Second semester already. Soon, you'll be graduating."

The thought makes Max squirm. 

"You said you wanted to pursue photography after school, right?"

"Yeah, probably."

"You aren't sure?"

Max shrugs. "I guess I've just not been that into it, lately."

Ms. Owen doesn't really react to anything she says, she just nods, keeping this calm demeanour as she jots down a thing or two. 

"So today," she begins, "I wanted to ask you about your family, and some of your relationships."

"Um, okay." 

Ms. Owens smiles affectionately. "Don't worry. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to." She sets her pen down. "I'd like to ask you what it was like going home for the Christmas break."

"It was fine," Max answers. "It was nice to see my parents. And they were happy to have me home."

"Would you say that your parents worry about you a lot?"

"Not really. I mean, they never did before."

"Before?"

Max swallows. "Before they had a reason to, I guess."

But Ms. Owens just nods, apparently oblivious to the fact that  _The Event_ has just been referred to for the first time. "And how do you feel about that?"

"About them worrying about me?"

Ms. Owens nods.

"I don't know. I understand why they've been... more worried lately, but it's a little annoying."

Ms. Owens continues nodding. She's a nodding machine. "Have you guys had a dialogue about what happened last October?"

 _A dialogue._ Max wants to laugh at that for some reason. It sounds so... not her family. "Sort of," she says, after a beat. "We've talked about Chloe, but I think they're still in shock. They just talk about when she was a kid. That's the Chloe that they remember."

"Do you feel then like your parents are talking about a different Chloe, maybe even a stranger, when they talk to you about her?" Ms. Owens takes the words right out of her mouth.

"Yes. I do." She hesitates. "It's like that with a lot of people."

Ms. Owens writes something. "That's really interesting, Max. Why do you think that is?"

 _Because I time-travelled._ "I don't really know."

"Aside from your parents, do you have anyone else who you've talked about Chloe with?"

"Chloe's mom. My friends."

"That's good," says Ms. Owens. "Really, Max. It's great that you are letting yourself talk about it. The worst thing you could do would be to bottle it up." She sets her pen down again, and looks at her kindly. "I'd like to ask about Chloe's mother. Are you helping each other grieve?"

"I go to see her a lot," Max tells her. "And I helped her clean out Chloe's room."

"I'm glad to hear that. Grief is one of the hardest and most draining things in the world. The fact that you shared such a sad experience with someone who was close to Chloe as well, that's really fantastic." She writes a few words. "Did you take anything of Chloe's?"

Max fidgets with her hands. They're clammy. "A box of clothes, and some personal things."

"Photos? Old toys?"

She flushes. "I... I don't know. I haven't opened them yet."

Ms. Owens doesn't seem surprised. "Why?"

It's not a rude question, but Max feels a spark of annoyance. "I just haven't."

Ms. Owens moves on. 

Over the next twenty minutes, it drifts from family again to school, to Max's nightmares. Max describes them vaguely, and feels hot as she watches Ms. Owens write it all down. She tries to convince herself that nightmares are normal. She used to get nightmares after eating too close to bedtime or getting stressed over a particular test. Her nightmares now, they're just a reaction to what happened. They will go away, and she's looking forward to sleeping again. Paranoia fills her, over what Ms. Owens might be thinking. Her face is so infuriatingly mellow, it doesn't give a single hint.

"We're almost out of time," Ms. Owens says. "Until next time, I'm going to give you some homework."

"Oh, great."

Ms. Owens laughs. "No worries, you don't have to write an essay or read twenty chapters of anything." She opens the folder on her lap and hands Max a few sheets of stapled paper.

On the front page, the word 'GOALS' is spelled out in chunky, cartoonish-writing, and underneath, are three blank, numbered lines. When Max glances up, Ms. Owens is holding out a pen. 

"Your homework is to read the rest of the pages," Ms. Owens explains, as Max reaches for the pen. "They're all about some coping techniques and cognitive processes that I'd like you to try. I'll talk about in greater detail next time. This one, though," she inches her chair forward a little, so that she can lean over and tap the front sheet. "I'd like you to write down three goals that you'd like to have achieved by the end of our sessions."

"Three goals?"

Ms. Owens nods. "Big or small, though I'd advise small." She smiles then, warm. "You can write them yourself later on, and I won't ask you what they are. They're for your personal motivation. But, if you don't mind, I think that one of them should be opening Chloe's boxes."

Max's heart sinks. "I don't know."

"Writing it down is enough," Ms. Owens says. "If you haven't done it by the end of our sessions, then, that's okay. But writing it down and thinking about it, keeping it at the front of your mind, it's a step forward. The intention is there. The only rule is that you can't lose that intention, or try and ignore it. I want you to tell yourself, 'I will do this, maybe not today, but soon'. Do it for every goal."

Max's hand feels shaky and weird, she's painfully aware of it as she writes ' _Open boxes_ ' on one of the lines. 

It's scarier, written down.

"For the last two," Ms. Owens says, "Pick anything you want. Two things that you want to do. Two things that will help you find peace."

Max gets to English early, and sits with the goals sheet half-concealed by her textbook. 

She thinks. 

She picks up her pen, and writes something down for the second line.

_Write in my journal again._

She thinks it's achievable. She thinks she can do it.

A third suggestion pops in her brain. It scares the shit out of her.

She picks up her pen three times before she has the courage to even press it against the paper.

She writes in slow-motion.

When it's finished, she stares at the words like someone else has written them. 

She pictures that Chloe has written it. She pictures Chloe cheering her on.

_Tell the truth. Eventually._

 

* * *

 

 Warren is leaning against the board in the front hall when Max finds him after her classes end. He's wearing a shirt with a beaker on it, accompanied by the slogan, 'Stand back! I'm about to do SCIENCE!', scrawled across the top. He lifts a hand in greeting and rubs his arm awkwardly when she gets near him.

"I can't believe we're doing this," he says. 

Max bites her lip. "You don't have to do it. Seriously, Warren, I know it's a lot to ask."

"Are you kidding? Max, there's no one else I'd rather do this with." He grins then, goofily, and shrugs his shoulders. "Just scary, is all. What if we get caught?"

"If our plan works, we won't."

" _Of course_ the plan will work. I came up with it."

She smiles, genuinely, and feels a swell of affection for him. "Thanks, Warren. You're seriously the best."

"I know, I know." He clears his throat. " _So..._  shall we?"

 

* * *

 

 Five minutes later, as Max pretends to look at some posters by the trophy cabinet, a loud  _boom_ splits the air. 

Down the hall, Ms. Grant's classroom begins to cough out plumes of smoke.

Max feels a shot of adrenalin. At the same time that Warren comes staggering out of the class, a hand clamped over his mouth, the other fanning roughly at the smoke, Principal Wells comes barrelling out of his office, wide-eyed and alarmed.

He spots Max, and she points.

"I think something exploded in the science room, sir!"

"Oh,  _Jesus_ —" He rounds the corner and races with remarkable speed down the hallway, and soon, Mr. Madsen is on his heels, carrying a fire extinguisher and roaring for everyone to get the hell out of the way. 

Max is staring at the scene unfold, seriously impressed, by the time Warren jogs up to her. His eyes are a little red, and his voice cracking a little, when he grins at her and says, "Phase one— _cough_ —complete!"

Max claps him on the back. "You're a genius, Warren!"

He holds up his hand. "SCIENCE!"

Max high-fives him, laughing. "Science!"

"I set up another experiment on the other side of the room, it should go off in another few minutes. Should keep them busy." Warren taps his watch. "Come on, we don't have much time!"

Max nods, and the two of them spin on their heels, and dart into Wells's office.

Empty, as hoped for.

Warren shuts the door when they enter, and then goes straight for the computer.

"Oh man, he's already logged in," He complains, fingers already beginning to type rapidly. "I wanted a chance to show off my mad hacking skills."

"Maybe next time we break into the Principal's office," Max remarks. She hurries over towards the file cabinet. "Find anything you can, Warren."

"Will do."  _Click. Click. Click._ "I'm accessing the 2010 school records."

Max tugs the heavy cabinet drawer open, and starts to leaf through the 'P's. Her heart is thumping.

She steals a glance over her shoulder, and the sight of Warren in Well's chair stirs up something strange and sad.

Chloe had really loved that chair.

"Yes! His school file. Thank God it's still here." Max pulls out the folder and slaps it down on the table, flipping to the first page and poring over it.

Dean's photo, clipped to the top-right corner, is a lot like every other picture she's seen of him. He is broad and honey-haired, with a strong jaw, and grinning, carefree eyes. 

His GPA is 3.9, he is listed as the "pride of Blackwell" for his "outstanding academic excellence and his inspired leadership of the Otters swim team".

From the computer, Warren calls out, "So, are you going to tell me why we're looking for everything the school has on Nathan Prescott's older bro?" When Max hesitates, he lets out a nervous chuckle. "Actually, wait. I don't wanna know."

She jumps, almost dropping the file, as another gigantic  _BOOM_ bursts to life in the background. She hears Mr. Madsen roaring.

"Success!" Warren hisses. "Nerd power!"

Max leafs quickly through the rest of Dean's file, but it's all predictable. Stellar report cards and a lengthy list of all of the awards he ever won, a lot of them swim-focused. There's a glossy photograph towards the end of him in his swim hoodie, proudly displaying a gold medal. 

Max sighs. "There's nothing here—"

"Holy shit," Warren is staring at the screen, wide-eyed. "Max, look at this."

She hurries around to the back of the chair, and peers at the computer.

She expels a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.

Dean's online record is quite different. 

"Truancy, curfew breaks and, what the hell, intoxication in class?" Warren reads aloud. "Fuck, this dude was hardcore."

Max shakes her head. "The Prescotts did this. They hid Nathan's real record, too."

"They did? How do you know that?"

"It was, uh, in the newspapers. Scroll down." 

He does. "Shit, Max, look at this. Wells e-mailed Mr. Prescott on, lemme see, the fifth of April. He was going to cut Dean from the swim team, and take away his position as the Captain."

Max's eyes flick rapidly over the screen, reading line after line of several different reports, all from the early months of 2010. "Uncommunicative in class, lethargic. Weed in his gym locker." One particular incident catches her eye, and she leans in, squinting at it. She reads aloud, "Dean Prescott was given a month of detention this morning for breaking into the janitor's shed and attempting to steal personal property."

"Amateur burglar?" Warren says.

"That's so weird. What could he want from Samuel's shed?"

Warren glances down at his watch. "Max, we got a couple more minutes left, tops."

"Okay, okay. Um, can you run his name through the e-mail archive?"

Warren hits the keys. "Done." The results fly up. He clicks into the first one. It was written by Principal Wells. 

"It's dated after Dean's death, the day after," Max says. "It's to Mr. Prescott."

" _Shocked and deeply saddened_ , yada yada yada," Warren mumbles. He scrolls down to the end, and stops. " _We packed up the contents of Dean's locker this afternoon and have sent them to your estate._ " 

"That's it," Max says sharply. 

There's the sound of scuffling from down the hall, and Warren jumps up from the chair and closes down the computer. "We gotta go."

They make it out, just in time to see Mr. Madsen carrying a smoking box of science equipment out of the far doors. 

"Aw," Warren says. "I hope I didn't fuck up Ms. Grant's budget."

"I think you fucked up her classroom, Warren. It's going to reek of sulfur."

"It had to be done, in the name of investigating!" He follows her outside, into the cool evening air. "Did you find anything useful?"

"I think so. I mean, I hope so."

"You aren't going to tell me, are you?"

A stab of guilt stings her. "It's really complicated, Warren. I don't want you mixed up in it."

"Even after I risked me and Ms. Grant's friendship?"

She smiles. "I promise, I'll tell you someday. I'll... I'll tell you all of it."

"As long as you're not in big trouble." He says. "I don't know why you're looking into the Prescotts, but you gotta know that's dangerous."

"I can handle it."

"If you say so. And if you ever need any more help or, like, more explosions, you know where I am."

"In your dorm room watching sci-fi movies?"

"You know me so well."

 

* * *

 

 When Victoria opens her dorm room door, the first thing she does is wrinkle her nose. 

"Ew. Why are you sweating?"

"I ran," Max says, still breathless, "From campus."

"Um, okay?"

"Can I come in?"

Victoria steps to the side, and Max walks into her room, which always smells of exotic candles and perfume. She doesn't sit down, but instead paces, still on edge, still feeling the notion of  _This could be it_ coursing through her veins.

Victoria shuts the door and leans against it, arms crossed and frowning. "Are you, like, on something?"

"No, sorry. I just—" She stops, and takes a long, perfumey-scented breath. "I'm going to ask you something, and you can't freak out."

"What?"

"I need you to help me."

"With  _what_?"

Max inhales. "I have to get into the Prescott estate."

Silence.

Victoria stares. And stares. Her lips part. "I'm sorry?"

"It doesn't make sense," Max says quickly, "and I can't explain it, not yet. But all you need to know is that I know something that can help Nathan in court."

Victoria goes still at that. "Are you serious?"

"Will you help me?"

"No, hold on, what the fuck? Max, what's going on? What do you know?"

"Do you like Mr. Prescott?"

Victoria looks perplexed. "What?"

"Do you like Mr. Prescott? Do you think he's a good man?"

Victoria pauses. "No."

"Do you trust him?"

"I... no." 

"I need you to swear that you'll keep this a secret."

"Fine, fine, I pinky-fucking-promise. Cross my heart. What is going  _on?_ "

"I think Mr. Prescott was involved in some way with the girls who were drugged, and I think Dean was, too."

It comes out in a rush, almost like a wind that seems to make Victoria sway and almost lose her balance.

The color has drained from her face.

"Max," she says, and then opens her mouth to continue, but nothing seems to be able to come out.

"Nathan's parents know you," Max goes on, "and they like you. I need you to help me get into their house, and then, I need to search Dean's room. I can't do it without you."

"Shouldn't—what—what the  _fuck_ —"

"For Nathan," Max says. Her heart is hammering again, merciless against her ribs. "We need to do this for Nathan, and for Chloe, and for every girl with their name on a binder."

Victoria's confusion has melded into shock. Her face is slack with it. 

"Alright," she says then. "Alright." 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!!! You are all my Valentines! ♥ Spoiler alert: this chapter does not refer to nor incorporate Valentines Day in any way, but hopefully, there's still some progress that you guys can be happy with. ;)
> 
> Thank you so much, as always, for the incredible feedback to each chapter and the fic as a whole. In case you guys didn't realise, I'M STILL NOT OVER IT. You all blow me away, and truly, I can't thank you enough. A thousand thanks as well to lovely Kittiara - I'm not exaggerating when I say she always makes these chapters ten times better. 
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this one, and I hope you like it. 
> 
> Until next time ♥

 

  
In the morning, Samuel rakes leaves and branches by his shed. The front of the dorms is quiet and still, flooded with pale, golden-hued light, and for one perfect, elongated moment, everything feels normal.

Kate sits on a bench by the side of the building, leaning forward to feed the beady-eyed squirrels, foraging at the bases of the trees. Max's eyes linger on her sadly, willing Kate to look up, to smile, to show some sign that everything  _is_ normal. But her eyes are cast downward, and it's clear that she doesn't care whether Max is there or not.

"Good morning, Max." Samuel's voice comes airy and light from behind her. She turns, just as his gaze drops shyly to the piles of leaves at his feet. 

"Howdy, Samuel." She shakes her head at the leaves. "February already. God, it's crazy."

"The semester will be over before we know it," Samuel agrees. "Have you thought about where you're going after graduation?"

The thought sends ripples of anxiety across her chest. "Um, no. Not at all. That is the  _farthest_ thing from my mind."

Samuel lifts his head, and sends her a gentle smile. "There will be many paths to follow, plenty of directions to take. But you will take the right one, I know you will."

"Thanks, Samuel." She swears that, sometimes, he can fill the air with peace as if he's pouring it into the atmosphere by hand.

Everything is rapidly descending into puzzles and chaos and confusion, but on mornings like this, when she doesn't have to think, or focus too much on how she feels, it's easy to believe that Blackwell is a good school—that Arcadia is a nice place. 

On these mornings, Chloe is in the wind and the birds perched on the street lights. She is the grass and the music of the leaves being raked. Outside of the bay, she inevitably ceases to exist. How can Max leave here at the end of the semester, knowing that she's never going to come back?

She's leaving Chloe.

She's leaving Nathan. 

Everyone.

Her whole life revolves around goodbyes, it seems. 

Last night, she'd had another nightmare, one that had made her shoot awake at four AM. She'd stood in the sterile, cold environment of the Dark Room, as sand poured in from some invisible hole in the ceiling. Thick and suffocating, it pooled around her feet and snaked around her legs in a choke hold. The room groaned, beginning to sink into the earth underneath the weight as the ocean of sand rose and rose.

Max dragged herself through it as it almost reached her chest, grabbing for red binders that seemed to be glowing. When she opened them, only more sand poured out. The Dark Room sank beneath the earth, taking her and its secrets with it, buried down deep. The sensation of falling had flashed so bright and hard across Max's mind that it hurt. 

Like the sand from an hourglass, she knows it may have been a sign. Now, she's here with the man she always considered to be the eyes of Blackwell Academy, who might have the information she needs. There's no time to waste. 

"Samuel, can I ask you something?"

He regards her curiously. "Of course, Max. Samuel is always here to talk." 

"It's going to sound weird."

He smiles. Soft. "Go ahead."

"I heard— uh, a rumor."

"I see," says Samuel. "A rumor. Goes in one ear, yet comes out many mouths."

"Something like that." She inhales. "It's about Dean Prescott."

Samuel continues to rake the leaves underneath his feet, his gaze downward, his face blank and easy. He doesn't, to Max's relief, seem mad or confused. It's more like she asked him the weather, or his plans for the day. 

"Yes. The eldest Prescott." He sniffs. "He broke the lock on my shed several years ago, but I had an alarm."

"Could I ask you some questions about him?"

"If it will help you, Max. I can see this is important to you."

"It is. I know it seems strange." She brushes her hair from her eyes. "What was he like? Was he just another Prescott?"

"No. Samuel thought he was kind and compassionate. He stood up for other children from his first year at Blackwell. I dislike bullies, Max. Despite what Dean Prescott turned into, he was never a bully."

"What he turned into?"

"Samuel doesn't like to judge people, but..." He pauses. "Dean was not so kind and compassionate, towards the end."

"You must have seen him around a lot, then. Did he seem different to you?"

"Completely. Sad and confused. He was being haunted by something, Max."

"The rumour I heard was that he broke into your shed." Max feels horrible for lying, but she can feel them getting somewhere with this. 

"He was very inebriated. I don't think he remembered the next day," Samuel answers. "Principal Wells and I came when we heard the alarm. He was waiting for us. He didn't take a thing."

"So why break in?"

"He admitted that he broke in for something, but he wouldn't say what it was." Samuel's eyes are round and sad. "He died, a few weeks later. Shame. He could have changed a lot in this town."

Max nods. For some reason, there's a lump in her throat. Retracing Dean's steps like this, it's filled her with a profound sense of ominous awareness. "His death could have been avoided, if more people had seen what was going on with him."

"Unless it was fate," Samuel says simply. "Then, everything happened exactly as it should have." 

Max pauses. "Thanks for letting me annoy you with all those questions, Samuel."

"You could never annoy me, Max." He stops raking, straightens, and looks at her thoughtfully. "I just hope I helped."

"You really did." She pauses. "Really, thank you."

He moves away, going to open the door of his shed. Before he slips inside, he sends her a nod. "I hope you find what you're looking for, Max."

"Me too." 

The sunlight has grown slightly warm, and it's a nice feeling, a change from the recent frost and frigid winds. The grass beneath her feet is dry and springy and she feels the sudden desire to sit down, to take a fistful of it and concentrate on the present. She tips her head back and stares up at the azure sky, wondering whether Dean Prescott and Rachel Amber are looking back.

She still feels as though she's being guided.

She turns her head and looks across the campus. Kate catches her eye, and for once, doesn't drop it. 

Feeling brave, Max lifts a hand and waves.

Kate waves back. After a moment, she sticks her hand up again, and beckons Max over to her with a jerk of her fingers. 

There are breadcrumbs sprinkled on the grass by Kate's feet, but the squirrels seem too shy to approach. Instead, they climb the trees and dig their sharp nails into the bark, heads darting from left to right, a silent conversation passing between them. 

The sun has lit Kate's hair pure gold, casting soft shadows over her face. Max bites her lip, and gestures awkwardly to the space beside her.

"Can I sit?"

Kate nods. She's sitting on her hands, one of her legs bouncing up and down a little. 

Max sits, and wonders what to say. The silence is filled by chirping birds and the scurrying of the squirrels along the grass, the scratch of their bodies against the trees. 

Kate doesn't seem angry, and she did let Max sit down. 

Max inhales. "H-How are you?"

"I'm okay. I just got back from my therapist. It was... a good hour."

"That's great," Max smiles. She hesitates for a second, before adding, "I'm actually seeing a therapist too."

"You are?" That makes Kate's head turn. 

"It's here at Blackwell, but... it's fine. I'm still getting used to it."

"I was so scared to go before, because I had no idea what to expect. But it's really helped me. I'm," she smiles softly. "I'm happy to hear that you're talking to someone."

"Me too." Max's smile comes easy.

There is a slightly awkward impasse then, one where Max isn't quite sure whether Kate is going to get up and leave, or stay on the bench. Fortunately, it's the latter. 

"Did you..." Kate starts, "Did you see Nathan this week?"

Max nods.

"Oh."

"Are you still angry with me?"

"I don't know."

"That's— that's okay."

Kate sighs. "I've been thinking about it, and, well, I believe in forgiveness. And redemption. I forgot that when we fought, because I was just so angry. I felt betrayed."

Max's heart sinks, a deflated balloon. "I know. And it's justified."

"I talked to my therapist about it, and my prayer group. I realized if I wanted to move on and be healthy again, I have to forgive him." Kate twists her fingers together as she speaks. Her nail polish is chipped and pale pink. "I'm trying to do that right now. And that made me wonder, is that why you're visiting him? Do you forgive him for Chloe?"

"I know it sounds weird, but, yes. I do."

"It's not weird. It's how you heal," Kate replies softly. "Max, you're my friend. I trust you, and you've always been there for me. If you're visiting Nathan Prescott, then you have a reason. The more I think about it, the more I realize how helpful it must be to you." 

Her hands are shaking, the relief that floods through her is so comforting. Max wants her to know everything, to understand everything. 

"Is he different?" Kate asks, almost shyly, like she's not sure whether she even wants to know the answer.

After a moment, Max nods, and her tone is firm. "He is. I know he never wanted to hurt anyone, he was just... a victim. Another victim."

Kate is nodding. "I don't think he's evil, and, despite what I said, I don't think he's a monster. He's just a kid, really, isn't he? Like all of us. It's... scary how much Mr. Jefferson influenced people around here." She seems pale all of a sudden. "It makes me wonder how long he might have been doing this. Arcadia can't have been the first."

"I don't think it was," Max says. "Kate, can I tell you something? You have to keep a secret, though. At least for now."

Kate looks over at her, her eyes so warm. "Of course, Max." 

"There's another reason I've been going to see Nathan." 

"There is?"

"It's... it's his father."

"His father? Mr. Prescott?" Kate's eyebrows raise. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"It might sound crazy, but I think he's connected to the Dark Room. I think he knows things about it that will get Mr. Jefferson locked up for a very long time. And, seriously? I think there's a chance  _he_ could be locked up."

"What makes you say that? Max, do you know something?"

"Nothing concrete." It feels amazing to talk to someone properly about all of this. The words seem to push out from her throat in a rush, desperate to be spoken. "But I have a lot of leads. There's something  _weird_ going on. Stuff doesn't add up."

"Max, this is  _huge_." Kate's eyes widen. "But it sounds so dangerous. Messing with the Prescotts, are you sure?"

"I have to. I can't help but feel like, just because Mr. Jefferson is going to prison, it doesn't mean the Dark Room is over.  _None_ of this feels over."

"I believe you, Max. Just, gosh, _be careful_. If Mr. Prescott finds out you're looking for information on him, he's not going to sit back and let it happen."

"I know. And I'll be careful, I promise."

"Does Nathan know?"

"No." Max shudders at the thought. "I know that they don't exactly have the...  _best_ relationship, but I still don't think Nathan would like me going after his father. He can't know. Not yet. I have to find proof that Mr. Prescott is involved first."

"I met him once," Kate says. "He came to one of our Meals on Wheels fundraisers a couple of months before everything happened. I think he was only there to show his face." Kate wraps her arms around herself, as if she's cold in the rising heat of the sunlight. "He was... really scary. I felt  _uncomfortable_ , even though he just asked me a couple of questions about the program." She bites her lip. "I can't imagine what having him as a dad would be like." She blinks. "I think I can understand why Nathan turned out the way he did."

She has a strange look on her face, her eyebrows furrowed in thought, her lips parted, her frame stiff. Max tilts her head as she observes her.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks.

"I was just—" Kate breaks off. "Thinking."

"About?"

Kate purses her lips. "I think I should go." Max hears her swallow. "To the hospital."

"Are you sure?"

"I want to forgive him, and I can't do that if I don't look him in the eyes. I want— I want to see him, because if you say he's getting better, then it's just another piece of hope for me, isn't it? A sign that it really is over, that I can move on." She flicks her gaze to Max. "Do you think, well, that I could go with you sometime? N-Not now, I think I still need some time. It's still complicated and... weird, but, someday soon, I think I'd like to go with you."

"Kate, you have no idea how great that would be. Of course."

Kate leans over then, and hugs her tight. "Thank you, Max," she says against her shoulder. 

Max swears that, across the quad, she sees Samuel smile.

 

* * *

 

 

The following day is a Friday, and its sunlit, breezy afternoon finds Max on the bench at the lighthouse, earphones in as she watches the sun sink lower and lower into the horizon. When she was younger, she used to believe the ocean swallowed the sun at night and spit it out in the morning. She and Chloe had even drew a whole comic book about it,  _The Hungry Ocean_ , replete with colorful Crayola-drawn pictures and enthusiastic scribbles. William had raved about it, and read it himself with fervour. As they grew older, he'd always joke that they should have gotten it published, and been made the youngest-ever comic book creators. 

It's always the memory that comes to her first, when she comes back here at sunset. 

The sky is awash with soft pinks and blues, a few wisps of cloud sprinkled in like cotton candy. She passed a couple of joggers on the way up, but other than that, the area is completely empty. In her ears, the wind whistles through the tall, looming pine trees, a secret song that only the squirrels seem to understand. 

She's always felt so small here, sitting on this bench. Arcadia is nestled far down below, and it's energy radiates outward and up, a fizzing static that raises the hair on the back of her neck. Even all the way up here, she can still smell the saltwater and the fish from the bay, like at any moment, the heavens would open and it might rain seaweed. 

She's thinking about Dean, Mr. Prescott, and the binders in the Dark Room. She sees Nathan on his knees in the girls bathroom, screaming at the tiles and punching them bloody. She sees Mr. Jefferson being hauled down the steps of the school and pushed head-first into a waiting patrol car. The reporters jamming their microphones into every student’s face, Principal Wells trying desperately to drag them away before they said anything. Chloe's body underneath a white sheet, being pushed out of the back entrance and into an ambulance. The photographs of the police-taped Dark Room, splashed across the newspapers. 

Where was Mr. Prescott? Already gathering a team to deny, deny, deny, Max thinks. He'll have the best lawyers in the state, and inevitably, clean-cut, solid alibis. To anyone else, he seems innocent. A bad guy, but not involved.

Up here, Arcadia's energy drums in her blood and the lighthouse almost whispers.

There's more. It's waiting to be found. 

Her phone buzzes in her back pocket, startling her, rousing her from her thoughts. 

"A patient at St. Dymphna's Psyc—"

Max's finger hits '1', a little too enthusiastically. It can be too quiet up here. 

"Hey."

"Hey," she says. "How are you?"

"I went to the fuckin' Community Group again. I talked for five minutes."

That makes her laugh. It sounds so loud in the silence, and weirdly alien to her. "That's great, Nathan. That's really great. Was Nell happy?"

He makes an annoyed sound. "Hell yeah, but I told her not to get used to it."

"You should be super proud of yourself," Max says. "I'm happy you called to tell me."

"Yeah, well." He swallows. "I wanted you to know."

A flock of birds have taken flight over the ocean, and are flying in perfect sequence. 

"Where are you?" he asks. 

"I'm at the the lighthouse, watching the sunset."

"On your own?"

She smiles. "Emo, I know."

After a beat, Nathan clears his throat and says, "I used to go there with Dean and my sister when we were kids. Play games. Dumb kid stuff."

"It sounds nice."

"Could you—" He pauses. "Could you take some pictures?"

"For your wall?"

He makes a noise of agreement.

"Of course, I'd love to. Anywhere specific?"

"No, just— whatever you want."

"Okay." She slips her camera out of her bag and leaves it sitting next to her on the bench. She draws her knees up under her chin and leans into the phone a little. "So, I have some news."

"What?"

She had doubted that Nathan would take kindly to her just randomly showing up with Victoria, not without telling him first. It's a big deal, one that she feels he deserves to know about. He's been a lot easier lately, listens more and snaps less, but even still, there's no way of gauging his reactions to such things. It's a break in their routine, something new. It's only fair that she asks his permission first.

"Victoria wants to come with me next Wednesday."

The line goes silent.

Max waits, letting him take it in.

When he doesn't say anything after what feels like five minutes, Max pipes up. "Is that... would that be okay with you?"

"I didn't know you were friends," Nathan says flatly.

"Um, we... kind of aren't? It's complicated, but, we were talking and she really wants to see you."

" _Why?_ " 

Max blinks. "Why wouldn't she?" 

"It's been fucking months."

"It was hard for her—"

"Hard for her?" Nathan interrupts. "Is that what she said? Does she know where _I've_ fuckin' been?"

"Whoa, whoa, don't shoot the messenger."

Nathan sighs heavily. She pictures him slouched against the wall, eyes scrunched up. 

"I think you should give her a chance. She's really missed you."

"If she  _missed_ me, she would've been here from the goddamn beginning."

"It's not that simple. You know that."

She allows a silence to filter in, and after a while, it seems to have calmed him down. All he ever needs is quiet, and time to think. When his voice comes back over the line, it's still gruff and hard at the edges, but it's not as hostile as it was before.

"She's never seen me in this place," he says. "She doesn't like hospitals. I don't want her to - to get freaked out and run away forever."

His words tug at her heart a little. "She won't. I mean, I didn't run away, did I?"

"You're different." 

She promised him, not too long ago, that if she heard or saw anything about his father and the Dark Room, to tell him. It hadn't been an empty promise exactly, but... an easy one. She didn't know she'd be this deep back then. 

She wants so badly to tell him about her suspicions, but she can't. Not yet. 

Max presses her lips together. "I'll see you on Wednesday."

"Good." Pause. "It's, uh, the best part of my week."

Max pulls in a quiet breath. It seems to get stuck in her chest. "Mine too."

She's not lying. 

"Bye, Max."

"Bye."

The air feels even more quiet, once he hangs up.

 

* * *

 

 

On Saturday morning, Victoria orders a cab to take them to the Prescott Estate. 

Max comes out of her room to find Victoria in her best jeans and luxuriously expensive knit sweater, the frames of her designer sunglasses wide and polka-dotted. 

"Um," Max glances down at her usual jeans, gray sweatshirt and t-shirt. "Am I... underdressed?"

Victoria slips off her sunglasses and her eyes drag tortuously slow up and down. "Are you serious? I thought you were, like, all into this undercover shit. That's what you're wearing? This is the  _Prescotts._ "

"...So?"

"Oh my God,  _so_ , I can't show up with you and try and convince them that you're another friend of Nathan's when you look so... so _Max Caulfield._ "

Max never thought her name could sound like a disease, until now. Victoria's lips actually curl around the words.

"Geez, point taken." Max pulls awkwardly at the hem of her shirt. "So, that's our story? I'm another Vortex Club member who was friends with Nathan?"

"Yes, and Vortex Club peeps do not dress like that. Ugh, hold on." Victoria grabs her roughly by the wrist and drags her into her room. She rummages in the drawers of her closet for a worrying period of time, finally pulling out a pair of crisp, ripped-at-the-knees white skinny jeans, a long black top that's ruffled at the end, and an immaculate denim jacket. She throws them in Max's direction and turns her back, folding her arms impatiently. "Come on. Change."

"Um, thanks?" 

The jeans are a lot tighter than she's used to, and the sleeves of the jacket fall so far past her hands that she ends up having to roll up the ends, but other than that, it's a good fit. It doesn't stop her feeling awkward as hell, though. She feels like she's just received some kind of weird Vortex Club transplant. 

"Amazing what fashion can fix," Victoria says casually. She wrinkles her nose at Max's beat-up old Converse. "You can keep...  _those_ on, I guess they'll have to do."

Max stares at her reflection in the mirror, pulling at the jacket with an amused smile. "I actually  _do_ feel like I'm going undercover."

"Don't get used to it. I want those back when we're finished. Are you ready to go?"

The Prescott Estate sits on the outskirts of Arcadia, on a high hilltop overlooking the back of the bay. The cab has to ascend what feels like miles and miles of perfectly-lain gravel before it even reaches the high, ivory-white gates. 

It's enormous, it's beautiful, and it's terrifying. And it's exactly what she'd expected. It reminds Max of those old, sturdy colonials that people just kept building extensions and floors into. The gates slide apart, obviously motion-activated, and the cab pulls smoothly into the wide, circular driveway, crunching to a stop over the gravel. An enormous fountain sits right in the centre, spilling rivulets of water down an extravagant statue. 

The house itself is enamel-white, all narrow arch-windows and square roof. High marble pillars flank the front door, two apiece, while around the house, stretches an endless lush, green garden. The lawns are freshly mown and tidy to a fault. At the side of the main house sits some kind of guest house, equally as impressive, with two sleek, shiny BMWs parked out front.

Max's jaw must be hanging open when she climbs out of the cab, because Victoria glances at her and rolls her eyes.

"Never seen old money before?" Still, even she seems nervous. She runs her fingers through her already neat and perfectly combed hair as she looks up at the house. Her voice is low when she hisses, "Try not to talk. Just follow my lead and we should get in and out fast."

"God, what are we doing," Max whispers back. "This seemed like a good idea a few days ago."

"Shut up, we can do this. Just keep your mouth shut unless somebody talks to you. If they do, be polite and vague."

"Okay. Jesus, okay."

Victoria's anxious movement forward has developed into a confident strut by the time she reaches the front door, and Max is breathless trying to keep up. Her entire chest is tightly clenched, like her lungs are holding all of her breath in. She tries to breathe but it's shallow and makes her light-headed.

Victoria lifts a manicured hand, and knocks loud.

Max sucks in flowery-scented air and holds it.

She imagines Sean Prescott opening the door, his frame taking up the whole doorway, staring down at her, scowling; they don't have a chance—

The door opens, and Max's gaze instantly falls several inches lower.

"Harry!" It comes out too high, laced with relief. 

"Hi," he chirps. He looks from Max to Victoria, and the little space between his eyes crinkles with perplexed curiosity. His eyes light up when he sees Victoria, and it's unclear who reaches for who first.

Victoria hugs him back hard. "I haven't seen you in  _f_ _orever_ ," she gushes. "God, are you getting taller?"

"I think so! You're still taller than me, though."

"Well, I've finished growing. You still have lots of years to catch up." She pulls away but stays crouched in front of him. Her voice has taken on a soft, almost maternal edge that Max would have never pictured Victoria even being  _capable_ of having. It makes her lips twitch into a smile, and when Victoria straightens, she catches the smile and seems to be resisting a sarcastic comment.

"Are you coming in?" Harry steps back from the door, his hand so small on the large, bronze handle. He looks more like a kid out of his boarding school uniform, less like a Prescott, his hair sticking-up in wild tufts and his colorful sneakers, the laces half-undone. 

"If that's okay, sweetie." Victoria pulls Max in after her, into a grand foyer with a huge, double marble staircase and a beautiful thick carpet. The walls are covered in abstract oil paintings. "Are you home alone?"

"Dad's not here, but Mom's in the other room." Harry points to his right. He winces. "She's in a real bad mood."

The words send a nervous shiver skittering up Max's spine, but Victoria silences any outburst with a look. 

Harry leads them towards a door that then leads into the most ornately beautiful dining room that Max has ever seen. It is wood-panelled with cream paint, it is silver and crystal, it is antique ornaments and an impossibly long, sandalwood table. The table is littered with thick manila folders and text-heavy papers. In the middle of it all, sits a woman with a glass of red wine at her elbow and a pen clutched tightly in her hand. She's wearing a burgundy blouse and a real pearl necklace. 

The other hand is in a fist and pressed against her temple. It's Nathan's mother, the woman from the hospital. She is tall and bony, her honey-blonde hair pulled up into a tight knot. Her mouth is hard and bitter, stained with wine, her eyes fixed on the papers with a frustration that is almost palpable. 

She looks up sharply when the three of them enter, as if she forgot that she isn't alone in the house.

"Victoria." Her voice is cool and steely. There is nothing motherly about it. "I wasn't expecting you."

"Hi, Scarlett." Victoria's smile is nervous at the corners. "Sorry for the unannounced visit. Maxine and I-" she waves her hand airily in Max's direction. "-Were just shopping and we remembered that I'd left some of my things in Nathan's room. While we were in the area, I said we might as well drop by."

"Maxine." Scarlett Prescott raises thinly penciled eyebrows. "I don't think we've ever had the pleasure."

"Uh, n-no, ma'am." Max silently curses the shake in her voice. She plasters a smile on her face and fakes confidence as she adds, "Your house is stunning."

"It's been in the family for generations." She sets her pen down. "You're the girl from the picture on Nathan's wall, aren't you?"

Max feels Victoria look at her, but stays smiling at Scarlett. "Yep, that'd be me."

"Pardon me, it's just I've never seen you before." Then, she seems to spot Harry standing at Max's side for the first time, and something ghosts across her eyes, makes them go hard. "Harry Aaron Prescott, you should be in your room finishing your art project."

"I got a lot done already," Harry argues, though not aggressively. "Can't I have a break?"

"Breaks are for slackers.  _You_  are not a slacker." 

"But--"

"Go. And don't talk back to me."

Max's stomach dips at the fall of Harry's shoulders as he leaves the room, and troops sadly upstairs.

"What did you say you were here for?" Scarlett asks. 

"I left some things in Nathan's room," Victoria replies politely.

"You have? I haven't been in there, I wouldn't know where they might be."

"I remember. Would it be all right if I went upstairs and got them? It won't take a second. Maxine and I have dinner reservations in an hour."

Max represses a triumphant grin when Scarlett nods, a strand of hair falling across her eyes. "Alright. You know where his room is."

"Thank you. It won't take a minute." 

Victoria takes Max's wrist again and leads her out into the foyer, shutting the door behind her.

Max makes a face, but Victoria presses a finger over her lip. "She can hear everything," she whispers. She beckons Max in the direction of the staircase, and the two of them ascend it, their shoes loud and echoing against the marble.

The second floor is a long, potpourri-smelling corridor, lined with shut doors and two or three mahogany coffee tables, holding vases of flowers and brochures for Pan Estates. It's colder up here, like a museum. Max feels as though she'd leave giant, ugly fingerprints if she were to touch anything. 

She follows Victoria to the door nearest them.

"This is Nathan's room," Victoria explains, opening the door. "God, it feels so weird to be here without him."

Inside, the shelves on the walls are bare. No pictures or posters, no sheets on the bare mattress. The closet sits with its doors open, totally empty. 

"Wowser," Max breathes. "They really stripped this place."

"It didn't look much different, before." Victoria sounds sad. At the foot of Nathan's bed sits a metal trunk, and she gravitates towards it. "My stuff should be in here."

Inside, it's also fairly bare, save for a few old cameras and some dirty magazines. Victoria makes a sound of disgust at those and wedges them off to the side. She pulls out a jewelled phone case, a couple of wrinkled cardigans, an old textbook or two from last semester. 

"At least they didn't throw my shit out." She places the items into her handbag. "Is the rest of his stuff at the hospital?"

"Yeah. His bedsheets, his clothes." Max looks around, a weight settling against her heart. "It's not very homey, is it?"

"Did you hear his mom say she hasn't been up here? They really don't give a shit."

"How did they get like this?"

"I don't know. They've always been like that." Victoria sits down on the mattress. It creaks and sags in the middle. "We used to smoke in here and complain about our parents, listen to music and just... talk bullshit. Seems like a lifetime ago."

Max hesitates, but the question seems to come anyway. "Did you and Nathan ever..."

"What?" Victoria's head snaps to look at her. "Fuck?" 

Max flushes, feeling herself go hot to her toes. She doesn't know why. "No! I just meant—"

"We weren't like that, FYI. He was— _is—_ one of my best friends."

"But you never wanted him to be... more?" She doesn't know why she's asking this. She just has to know; needs to know.

Victoria looks away, frowning. "It's complicated, okay? I don't want to talk about it." 

She stands up and marches back to the door. "Come on, we're wasting time. Dean's room is down the hall."

Max follows. They creep this time, footsteps deliberate against the wood. Victoria seems to know which creaky floorboards to step over and which ones to tread, and Max feels a sudden surge of appreciation for her, and the fact she's even here with Max, helping her with this. Maybe they weren't always destined to be at each other’s throats, after all.

"Hurry  _up_ , Caulfield." Victoria hisses. "Jesus, you move as fast as my grandmother."

Or, maybe not. 

On the right, as they reach the end of the hall, one of the doors is open. Max looks in, and sees a large desk, a large painting of the Prescott Estate, a shiny computer and ornate decorating. 

"Is that Sean Prescott's office?" Max whispers.

"Yeah, why?" Victoria stops in her tracks when she spots Max beginning to creep in. "Max! What the fuck? Are you  _crazy?_  Get back here!"

"Just give me a second in here, please."

"He probably has cameras in there!"

"But this could be my only chance." Max shoots her a half-annoyed glance over her shoulder. "Stay there if you want to."

"Oh, fuck you." Victoria's face is thunderous as she follows Max in.

Max's skin prickles with adrenaline as she inches closer towards the desk. She never thought she'd get in here. Not wanting to tempt fate, she knows she has to be as quick and thorough as possible. She goes for the computer first, but it's password-protected. She's not Warren, and there's no way she's going to risk getting caught snooping through Sean Prescott's personal files, so she bends down and pulls open the drawers instead, one by one.

The first is full of technical documents and business papers, old contracts with stained ink. Victoria jitters anxiously on the balls of her feet at the door, arms crossed, her eyes darting all over for some imaginary camera.

"Holy shit!" Max pulls out a familiar sheet of paper. "Yes!" 

"What?"

"It's a copy of the construction papers for the bunker."

"...So?"

" _So_ , I never thought I'd get this!" Max whips her head around wildly, scanning the shelves, the desk, looking for— "Bingo! Victoria, can you scan this to my e-mail address while I go through the rest of the drawers?"

"Jesus, what are we doing?" But Victoria comes and takes the document, holding it at the very edge of the paper as she tiptoes over to the scanning machine by the window. "This was  _not_ part of the plan."

"It's all super important, I swear!"

Max grabs the handle of the second drawer and pulls it open. Nothing but paper clips, pens and extra printing paper. The third drawer on the other side holds much of the same. She pulls open the fourth, leafing through the contents.

"There, it's done." Victoria shuts off the machine and creeps back over, crouching down next to Max and slipping the construction papers back into the right drawer. "What did you find?"

"Look, it's... report cards from Nathan's elementary school." Max's fingers are trembling, the adrenaline too much, making her pulse pound in her throat. "He was a great student, look at these comments, ' _creative and intelligent_ '."

Victoria reaches in and pulls out a dozen postcards, maybe more. The pictures on the front are of glossy rainforests and exotic animals. "These are from Kristine. She's in Brazil for the Peace Corps." Her eyebrows are furrowed, like she can't get her head around why these would be in Sean's personal desk drawer.

Max picks out a graduation photo of a pretty girl laughing, dressed in her robes, obviously Kristine. There are also a bunch of praising letters about Dean, everything from glowing letters from former teachers and sports coaches, to newspaper clippings about Dean's achievements with the Otters. The headlines about him are all circled, the clippings kept in in frames, meticulously cared for. She also pulls out drawings, the kind that infants do, of their paint-slicked hand-prints and clumsy, sideways houses and smiling stick-figures. 

 _For Daddy, Love Harry,_ is scribbled in proud, large letters across the top.

She finds Harry's acceptance letter to boarding school, old photos of Nathan from what looks like a school play. A picture of Kristine getting her first haircut, some of Dean's old letters to Santa.

"What the hell?" Victoria's face is slack with astonishment. "Why would he keep all of this shit?"

Max stares at the stiff, awkward photograph of the whole Prescott family sitting on Sean's desk, almost all of them unsmiling and tired-looking, and she wonders where it all went wrong. Why Sean feels the need to shut these memories up in a drawer, rather than display them. When did they stop being a family? 

"Max, we need to get to Dean's room."

Max nods. She got what she came for, what she didn't even know she'd come for - the construction papers. Her heart is still slamming hard against her ribs as they tiptoe out of the office and into the last door on the left side of the hall. Dean's room. 

Inside, it's cold and dusty, and has that unlived-in smell that Max had only experienced coming home to her house after a long vacation. There are wrinkled, faded-white sheets on the bed, and a large sea-blue comforter. A desk, a chair, some pens and a stack of brand new textbooks. There are some clothes strewn along the floor - a few pairs of jeans, a tie, a hunting jacket.

Victoria leans down and scoops up the hunting jacket. "Oh my God, he lived in this thing." Her hand runs over the fabric. "How could they just leave his room like this?"

Max doesn't want to say, but in her mind, she can see parallels between Dean and Chloe. Joyce had two choices: either leave Chloe's room as it was and have it be painful, or clean it out and box everything up and have it be equally painful. There's really no difference.

Standing there, just for a second, Max feels a startling wave of relation to the Prescotts.

"We're looking for a box," Max says. "It's the stuff that they emptied out of his locker when he died."

"Box," Victoria says, mostly to herself. "I'll check the closet."

Max nods, and moves towards the chest of drawers by his bed. There's an old ring-stain from where he must have placed a hot mug of something, and it stained the wood. In the first drawer, she finds some old report cards from Blackwell—all stellar, naturally—and a half-empty box of cigarettes. There's also a couple of photos. 

A young-looking, beaming Dean, holding a baby with a blue hat, wrapped in blankets. On the back, someone has written,  _Dean & Harry _. A picture of Dean, Nathan and Kristine at a water park, their skin sun-kissed and tanned, hair damp. Nathan isn't smiling, but he has an arm around the neck of each sibling and there's a contentment in his eyes. There's another photo, this time of a toddler Nathan, all chubby cheeks and curious stare, and Dean, a few inches taller, a little older, holds him by the hand, as they walk through the gardens outside. 

Max takes the picture, and slips it into her bag. 

"Nothing here," she says.

"I got nothing either." Victoria steps away impatiently from a closet of old clothes. "Check under the bed."

Max lifts the sheets and coughs at the cloud of dust that blows up in her face. Through the darkness, she makes out a few coins, a sock, the lost cap of a bottle of water and... something rectangular and bulky.

"Gotcha!" Max grabs it and pulls it out. "Thank God."

"Ugh, it's covered in dust." Victoria claps a hand over her mouth as Max wipes her hand across the thin layer of dust that coats the top. It's a shoebox, and it's heavy. 

Max lifts the lid. 

A tangled pair of earphones, a leather wallet. Max opens it, but it's empty. There are some textbooks, well-thumbed through with sections highlighted. Another photograph, this time, of all the family. It looks like July 4 celebrations, the six of them standing by a barbecue with fireworks going off in the background, bursting into color in a light cobalt sky. They all look happy, they all look young. Victoria takes the photo and stares at it while Max goes through the rest of the contents. 

An Otters swim tank top, folded, still stinking of chlorine. Some pens with little ink, a novel for English class, some old candy wrappers and another box of cigarettes. 

"Nothing." Max sits back on her hunches, disappointment welling in her gut. "Shit, I really thought there'd be something."

"What's that?" Victoria points at something Max can't see, and then, reaches in and pulls out a half-torn sheet of paper. One side is covered with rushed handwriting. 

Max's breath hitches. Victoria hands it to her.

Dean's writing coats the page. He's scribbled stuff out, things she can no longer make out, the ink so deeply etched into the paper it's well past reading. 

He's written some words and then crossed them out. Max leans in closer, reading them aloud. 

~~_hospital_ ~~

~~_beach_ ~~

~~_attic_ ~~

"What the fuck..." Victoria says lowly. 

At the bottom of the page, there is a single letter, circled and heavily underlined.

_T_

"T?" Max says. "Who's T?"

"I can't remember anyone with that initial," Victoria says. "T... T who?"

Max slips the paper into her bag and pushes the box back underneath the bed. When the two have them have gotten back to their feet, the door suddenly opens, and Max's stomach rises so violently, her hand flies to clutch her chest.

"Oh, it's you guys." Harry smiles when he sees them, and Max slowly feels her fear begin to flood out from her, like it's dripping from the ends of her fingers. "I thought I heard a noise."

"Sorry, honey." Victoria sends him a sunny smile. 

"How come you're in here?"

Max panics, mouth opening to blurt something nonsensical, but Victoria beats her to it.

Her voice is calm and airy. "I just wanted to see this room one last time, you know?"

Harry nods. He looks around, and his hands fall to his sides. "Yeah. I come in here sometimes too."

Max's heart breaks for him. "I bet you really miss him," she says softly.

"All the time." Harry shrugs. "I wish he was still here. The house is so empty now."

Victoria walks over to him and puts her arm around his narrow shoulders. "He's still looking out for you. And I bet he's so proud of you, Harry."

Harry smiles at that, a little shyly. 

Children can accept such comfort rather easily. It's not so implausible for them to believe in things like angels and relatives perched on a cloud in the sky, watching over them.

It's harder, maybe even impossible, for the adults. 

Still, Max smiles at Victoria's words, and feels a pang of something she doesn't know in her stomach. 

Chloe would be proud of her, too. Maybe.

When they go back into the dining room, Scarlett has a new glass of wine and is on the phone, massaging the bridge of her nose. Victoria waves at her pleasantly, and shows her some of her belongings to confirm she got what she came for. 

Scarlett waves back, but more dismissively than anything. 

Outside, Max sucks in a lungful of fresh, non-perfumed air and expels it slowly.

"That," she says, "was one of the scariest things I've ever done."

"Try sleeping over there when you're a kid," Victoria retorts. "Creepy is not the word. But, well, we did it, and got out unscathed."

"We make a good team."

Victoria snorts. "Maybe. I'm just glad I got my stuff back, and glad you got what you wanted. Can you  _really_  help Nathan?

"I'm  _this_ close... I just need to figure out who this 'T' is."

Victoria nods. "Well, I trust you. Weirdly." She reaches into her bag for her phone. "Let's get out of here."

 

* * *

 

 

The days leading up to Nathan's next visit seem to fly by, and before Max knows it, she's back on the bus to St. Dymphna's with Victoria, stiff and uncharacteristically silent, in the seat next to her. The bus is empty, but she's clutching her bag like someone is going to rip it out of her hands.

The drive to the hospital, for some reason, feels longer.

When the bus pulls up outside the gates and they get off, Victoria's eyes almost pop out of her skull.

"Holy shit," she mutters. "It looks like a prison."

"It's not," Max insists. "I thought that, my first time. But you'll see, it's really nice." 

Victoria stares at her.

"I mean, as nice as a hospital can be."

Victoria follows sluggish behind, and clings to the railing in the elevator so tightly that her knuckles flush ivory. Max wants to put a hand on her shoulder or something, but that would probably make this even more awkward and weird, so she steps to the side and lets Victoria have her space.

"I  _hate_ hospitals," Victoria sounds like she's ill.

"You're already here," Max smiles. "That's a big step."

"Oh my God,  _shut up._ "

The doors ping open, revealing the long hallway that leads up to the ward. Max strides ahead, confident, familiar. She's just reached the doors when she feels a hand encircle her wrist, spinning her around, pulling her to a halt.

Victoria's eyes are wide and frightened. "Max,  _wait_. I don't know if I can do this."

"Tell me what you're afraid of. Specifically."

"Um, I don't know? That he'll freak out and not talk to me? That he'll yell at me for being a shitty, awful friend?"

"He's not going to do that." Probably.

"How do _you_  know?" Victoria snarls. "You think you know him better than I do or something?"

Max winces at the attack, but before she can answer, Victoria softens, and her eyes fill up with tears.

"I'm sorry, shit, I didn't mean that. I'm just— I'm  _scared_ , Max."

"You know, he's probably just as scared as you."

Victoria wipes her streaming eyes. "I-I know, but—"

"You said it yourself. He's one of your best friends, and your one of his. The scariest part is the apprehension, the moment  _before_  you see each other. But I promise, when you do, it's going to be okay. You're also really excited to see him, right?"

"Well— yeah. Yes,  _of course_."

"You missed him, didn't you?"

"So much." 

"Focus on that. I know he's missed you just as much."

"Max—" Victoria's voice shakes. "Thank you."

"No worries. Now, take a deep breath. Are you ready?"

After a moment, Victoria nods, dabbing the corners of her eyes. 

Max sticks close to her this time, and walks with her through the door.

Everyone is just watching TV or reading, and Max watches the fear fade gradually from Victoria's eyes as she looks around. Max looks down the hall, and spots Nell outside Nathan's door, talking with two orderlies who have stopped the cart they are wheeling to speak to her.

When Max reaches her, she smiles brightly. "Nell, this is Victoria, another friend of Nathan's. Victoria, this is Nell, she's super awesome."

" _Nell?_ " It seems to come out of Victoria's lips before she can stop it. "Your name is Nell?"

"Eleanor, if you want to get fancy," Nell replies. "Which, you know, I'm not into."

Max looks at her. Her face is taut and her mouth unsmiling. There's a stress in the way she pulls at her coat and can't seem to look anyone in the eye for more than a few seconds, her gaze darting all over the place. 

Something's wrong.

"Nell?" Max's stomach cramps up. "What's up?"

Nell stares at her for a second, lips moving like she's going over how to phrase her words. "We kind of have a problem."

"What?"

Suddenly, there's a deafening  _crash_ from behind Nathan's door. Max hears the sound of something being kicked. 

"Nathan's decided to make my day awesome by barricading his door and he won't let anybody in," Nell tells her. The color has drained from her face. It's the first time in, well, ever, that Max has seen her look truly concerned. 

" _What?_  Why?"

Nell's face seems to sink. "His... father called this morning. The family is moving to Boston at the end of May. They're... I mean, Nathan can't go with them."

Nell spins, and raps loudly on the door. "Nathan, listen to me. This isn't the way to deal with the pain you're feeling. You can't just start smashing up shit, alright? I'm kicking the door in if you don't open up."

Nathan's response is to fling something heavy against the door.

Nell grabs at her hair, flustered. "I called a couple orderlies from H Block to come get him and put him in the Quiet Room, but they're delayed by another patient." 

On the other side of the door, Nathan is shouting something indecipherable.

Max looks at Victoria. Her face is ashen, and her hand is over her mouth. 

Max feels as if the air has been knocked with force from her lungs. Someone has kicked her in the stomach.

She looks at Nell. She looks at the orderly, who’s ready to break down the door.

"Let me go in," she blurts.

Several pairs of eyes snap to her face and stare.

Nell stares too, her mind obviously formulating a dozen responses that, in the end, she seems to abandon. The crashes on the door are only getting louder. 

"Do you need an orderly to go in with you?"

Max shakes her head, slowly. Her heart is racing. "No. It's okay."

"Max," Victoria's voice is brittle and small.

Nell knocks loud, when there is a lull in the noise. "Nathan! Max is here. She wants to come in. Will you let her?" 

There's movement on the other side, it sounds close to the door. 

Nell glances at Max, uncertain.

"Trust me," Max urges.

The door is opened, barely, just a tiny chink that Max fits her fingers around and pushes open. 

An orderly tries to follow her through, when she's on the other side, but suddenly Nathan is there, banging the door shut again and sliding his chest of drawers back up against the handle.

The room is thrashed. He's thrown his clothes around the room, belted his shoes at the wall, torn the sheets and pillows from his bed. The frame of the bed looks sideways, where he's kicked it.

His chest is rising and falling heavily, and his hands are gripping the sides of hair so hard and so roughly, Max is terrified he's going to tear out clumps. She reaches for him but he pulls back, heads backwards until he hits the wall. His eyes are screwed up, red-raw and puffy, his lips bitten, his cheeks red splotches. 

"Nathan—"

He shouts again, hands falling from his hair to grip the sides of his face. "I want to fucking  _GO HOME_ ," he yells. "Just - fucking - let me  _go home._  I don't want to be here anymore, I hate this fuckin' place, I hate it. I shouldn't be here!"

He stumbles over the words, chokes on them, spits them out like venom onto the floor. Max can't move. She's frozen in place, and knows she can't do a thing but listen. 

"They're  _LEAVING_ ," Nathan cries. "Abandoning me. Everybody - everybody  _fucking_ abandons me--"

He picks up one of the Baker books and throws it hard at the wall. 

Max's throat has gone tight, and she knows she won't be able to say a word without her voice cracking. 

"I hate them, I hate  _all_ of them." He kicks the table by the window, overturning it, spilling the rest of his books onto the ground. He picks them up and hurls them, one by one, at the opposite wall.

Max lets him. She knows he isn't going to hurt her. 

"E-Everybody leaves me and I'm  _sick_ of it. My parents, my sister, my fucking  _brother-_ -" 

He spins on his heel and punches the wall above his bed with as much force as he's capable. Max hears a crack, hears him shout, but he's still punching, beating the wall so fast and hard. Blood drips from his knuckles and runs down the wall. 

Then, he bursts into tears. Rough, raw,  _devastated_ sobs that tear out of him and almost choke him.

Max is moving before she realizes. She flings herself at his back, chin hitting it, and wraps her arms around his front to restrain his own arms by his sides. He fights her, trying to shake her off, but the rush of adrenaline seems to have granted her hidden strength. 

"Stop— get  _off me—_ don't—" He's convulsing in her arms. Max's throat feels closed, she can't speak. 

Slowly, he stops fighting. His hands fall limp and exhausted to his sides, and then, _he disintegrates._ Falls completely and utterly apart. 

He doesn't hold back these sobs, lets them pour out, endless streams of angry, wretched howls that bash off the walls and envelop the room. His head drops forward, his body goes slack and shakes, he sinks to his knees.

Max follows. She keeps her arms tight around his chest, cheek pressed against his shoulder, her own eyes shut as she holds on. 

His knuckles are a mess, the blood staining his fingers. They must burn. Max tightens her hold, rubbing his back.

After a moment, his hand comes up fumbling, and grabs hold of her hand, curled into the fabric of his jacket, on his shoulder. He clings onto it, like he's in danger of falling, and needs something to hold onto.

"I-I hate them," He manages to get out between sobs, his breath catching in his throat. " _I hate them_."

"I know," Max finds her voice, but it is a weak, shattered thing. "I know."

There is the thud of a boot against the door, then a second, and then, the third time, the door comes caving in, splintering like it's made out of nothing. Three orderlies force their way in, clamber over the drawers, and stop at the sight of the two of them.

Nell follows, out of breath, flushed. She looks close to tears.

"Is he alright?" She sees the blood, on the wall and on his hands. She softens. "Nathan."

"D-Don't pick me up," he says then. He's hoarse. "I-I'll walk t-to the Quiet Room."

The orderlies seem to relax, and look at Nell for confirmation. She nods.

Max stands, and then helps Nathan stand. He leans against her, and her hands fall from around his chest to reaching down to grasp his hand. His skin is warm and clammy and Max rubs his palm with her thumb. He can't seem to look at her. 

She only lets go when the orderlies insist on taking him to the Quiet Room.

In the doorway, Victoria is open-mouthed, her eyes brimming with tears. She's staring at Max. 

Max, a mixture of shocked and disoriented, stares straight back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RE: The Prescott house, I personally had this place [ this place](http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3-OlkFXDnjg/U6TUqbjROuI/AAAAAAAAFkA/ccb3L8n0_Og/s1600/Screen-shot-2014-06-09-at-5.32.54-AM.png) in my head.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, let's just pretend this didn't take over a month to post!! But my laptop issues are over and it's wonderful to be back :) Thank you guys for your incredible patience and support, I really hope you like this one! Endless thanks to Kittiara for looking this over & as always, making it so much better!
> 
> Before you read, check these out!!!
> 
>  
> 
> [ thornheartcat](http://thornheartcat.tumblr.com/post/141213617849/when-she-talks-to-this-nathan-on-the-phone-the)
> 
>  
> 
> [catsanstudios](http://catsanstudios.tumblr.com/post/140942813866/she-hands-it-to-him-and-for-a-second-all-he-does)
> 
>  
> 
> I HAVE NO WORDS. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I am utterly floored. ♥

 

Visiting hours are technically over by the time they bring Nathan back to his room, but neither Nell or any of the other staff mention this fact, and so Max doesn't bring it up. She's relieved about it, really. She doesn't think that she could have just left like that, whether she had the choice or not. 

She spends the remaining minutes of the time, which she usually uses speaks to Nathan sitting with Victoria in the ward's television area, trying to think about what to say. Victoria isn't speaking, not really: not like she usually does. Her face is ashen and she sits rigid in the seat, her legs pulled up under her chin, and she alternates every so often between staring at the other patients, or staring at the wall. 

Max's stomach is tight with cramps and knots, and she swears they are rising, spreading up into her oesophagus. She might choke on them. She can barely catch her breath, but instead feels it rattling around in her lungs. Her hands have stopped shaking, at least.

There's a radio on somewhere. She thinks behind the desk. She can hear soft, waltzy music emitting from somewhere and it doesn't have the soothing effect it's supposed to. She wants to shut it off—she wants silence. She  _needs_ silence, so that she can go back over everything that happened and try to make sense of it. She's pretty sure she just witnessed Nathan's metaphorical screws come loose, and it's scaring her to death. 

It's so quiet. Alien. It's like she's trespassing. Without the busy shuffle of family members and friends, the space around her seems to have doubled, and her thoughts almost echo. She starts to understand why someone might find this place lonely. Up until now, she's always imagined the patients milling around together, enjoying peace and quiet and structured solitude. But now it's so gray and monotonous, and the patients have sunken shoulders and flat, sad eyes, curled up in their little corners of the ward. She wonders whether they put up façades for their visitors. She wonders whether Nathan does for her. 

She looks at Victoria, and feels a spike of guilt at stressing the apparent positivity of this place. She gets it now. The sadness is tangible. 

Victoria holds her gaze for a second, her expression unreadable, before she looks away. 

When the doors to the ward burst open rather dramatically, Max and Victoria both jump, and whip their heads around to investigate. 

It's Nell, holding two mugs of something steaming, two spots of color high on her cheeks as she moves towards them. 

"Here; from the cafeteria, so you know, sorry in advance for its yummy tar-like quality. But I felt like you needed it." Nell slides a mug to them each, and, still standing, leans forward to press her hands against the table. She looks at Victoria first, her smile small and apologetic. "You sure picked a good day to come, didn't you?" 

Victoria stares at her, and though her mouth opens, she doesn't say anything. 

"How is he?" Max asks.

Nell winces. "Calm. Calm enough. He's on his way back to his room."

"...But?"

Nell sighs, long and weary. "I guess you could call this a relapse. He's in a bad way." 

A flower of concern blooms, hot and desperate to be felt, in the centre of Max's chest. Victoria is cupping her mug of coffee so close to her chest, she seems to be willing it into a comfort blanket. Something solid to hold onto as everything else falls apart. 

"Oh." Max's voice sounds watery and weak. "But he was fine. I–I thought he was getting better."

"Sometimes, all it can take is one little bump in the road to cause everything to unravel," Nell says quietly. "I should have seen this coming. His parents moving... it was just the catalyst." 

"What do you mean?"

"I noticed a change in him in the past day or so. I put it down to anxiety. I figured he'd tell his psychiatrist and sort it out, like he always does."

"Anxiety about what?"

"His lawyer came to see him yesterday, and shook him up pretty badly about the trial. Then, his parents calling today, to tell him they're moving to  _Boston?_  Final straw. That stress has been building up and building up." Nell touches Max's shoulder lightly. "In people like Nathan, stress can just shut them down. That's what you saw. And," She breaks off. "Max, I'm sorry I practically shoved you in there. It was ridiculous, I—"

"No, it wasn't," Max replies fiercely. "You would have just freaked him out more, if you went in there and tackled him. He wouldn't have gone with you quietly."

"It was still wrong." Nell looks away. "We're the ones who are paid and trained to deal with those situations. We do it a hundred times a day. I shouldn't have put that on you."

"I'm his friend," Max says. "If you hadn't asked me to go in, I probably would have anyway."

"You know what, you probably would have." Nell smiles a little. "He's on his way back. You can say goodbye, but after that, you gotta go. I'm sorry."

"It's totally fine, Nell. Seriously. I'm just glad we can see him."

Max stands up, draining the last of her mug, and is surprised when Victoria also gets up. She had thought, for a second there, she was going to bolt. 

"Wait," Nell says, and she sounds weird. Worried in a way that Max has never heard. She's usually so collected.

Max glances at her, eyebrows raised. "Yeah?"

"There's something else." Nell bites her lip. "It's fairly obvious that he's been skipping his meds. Another catalyst. At the very least, he hasn't been taking them for a day or two."

Something icy prickles up Max's spine. "Why would he do that? How could he do that?"

"It happens, unfortunately. We get people who hold it under their tongue, and even some geniuses who slip it down their sleeve when they bring it up to put it in their mouth. I don't know what he's been doing. He's just not been taking it."

"So what happens now?"

"He's in withdrawal right now. So, he's going to be... different when you see him."

"I'm sorry," Victoria grabs her coat and pulls it on roughly. "I have to get out of here. This is just— I'm sorry, I just can't." 

Max catches her arm. "Victoria—"

She's shaken off. "I'll wait for you at the entrance, alright?" She doesn't wait for an answer before she leaves, rushing out of the ward like it's on fire. 

There's a lump in Max's throat. Nell looks at her.

"What's her story?" 

"She doesn't like hospitals. This is... really hard for her."

"I get it." Nell nods. "But it was strong of her to come here today. Make sure she knows that."

"I will." 

"And thank you, again."

"I'm just glad he's okay," Max replies. "Um, relatively speaking."

"Now that we know about all of this stress in his life and that he's been skipping his meds, we'll keep a close eye on him. By next week, he should be on the climb back up again." Nell yawns, suddenly calm again, like she's flipping a switch. She stretches her arms high above her head. "Gotta hit rock-bottom before you can get back up."

"I don't know how you do it," Max says, shaking her head. "How do you come in here every day and not have an emotional breakdown?"

"Oh, man, I'm like 90% coffee," Nell laughs, but she falls quiet then, and shrugs both shoulders. "But you know, people depend on us. You can't give up. And it's not just about responsibility, either. Like, oh, I better do a good job because if I don't, I won't get paid. It's more than that. We've all gone through bad times, we've all dealt with shit. I don't see these guys as sick or helpless. Honestly, they're stronger than most. It's not easy to be here. But they do it. They have good days and bad days, but they don't give up. So, I owe it to them, I guess, to not break down."

Max feels a sudden wave of affection for her. "You are  _truly_ awesome, Nell."

Nell laughs, startled. "Thank you, Max." Her eyes drift to a young patient sitting by the window across the room. She's calling Nell over. "Hold on a sec," she says. 

Nell goes over to the boy and says something that makes him laugh, a giddy giggle that takes him over and lights up his whole face. He shows her something that he's been drawing and she gasps, in awe, falling into excited conversation with him. Behind Nell, the milky light of the evening is streaming in, and it has a remarkable radiating effect, softening the walls that are usually too white, softening the in-your-face colorful posters. It's a great angle, it's a perfect photo op. Nell looks like a superhero. 

It's been a long time since Max felt, or even recognized, a good photo op. Her heart flutters and she's pulling out her camera before her mind has a chance to interfere. She snaps the photo, and when it comes out, she shakes it three times and smiles.  _Really_ smiles. 

She missed this. Taking photos just because. Feeling the ripple of excitement prickle across her at the idea of capturing a moment, freezing it in time. 

When she's putting her camera away, suddenly the doors open, and two uniformed orderlies march through with Nathan. His face is kind of puffy and his hands have been tightly bandaged. He's walking different, and Max knows that's a strange thing to focus in on, but for some reason, she can't tear her eyes away. His usual slouch is ten times more heavy. It looks as though the orderlies are the only things keeping him upright and moving. He looks lost and alone, and Max's throat goes tight.

When he looks up and sees her standing there, his eyes aren't flat or blank or angry anymore, all the hysterical blaze of an hour ago evaporated out. Instead, they move rapidly, eyeballs sliding all over her like he can't control them. He can't look at her for more than two seconds without pulling his gaze away, and then back and forth and back again. He squints like he can't see her, blinks hard like he doesn't think she's there. 

Nell puts her hand on Max's shoulder and then they're following the orderlies, heading into Nathan's bashed-up room after them. The paint on the walls has cracked where he hit it, but at least someone has picked up all of his clothes and the smashed furniture. It seems cold and bare. Max lingers awkwardly in the doorway, scratching her wrist, as Nathan is lain lightly down on top of the bed and Nell walks over to him.

"Hey Chuckles," she says cheerfully. She holds up one finger and moves it slowly above his head, going from side to side repeatedly. "Can you follow my finger for me?"

Nathan says, "I know, I know," in a hushed whisper and doesn't follow the finger, doesn't even look at Nell. His feet slide against the covers like he's trying to scrub off the fabric. 

Nell nods, like she's certain of something. "Okey dokey. Deep breaths in and out, okay?" 

Nathan shakes his head. Max is frozen to the floor. She feels small and suddenly very young, out of her depth here in a major way. The orderlies talk to Nell for a second, and when they leave, Nathan spots her standing there and his face goes strangely pink, and he says, "Max."

"She's here," Nell waves her over with two fingers. "She just hung around to say goodbye. You can see her next week."

Max doesn't really know what to do, so she just holds out her hand, and is relieved when he takes it, his fingers closing around her own. His bandages are thick and she can see faint stains from the blood, settled underneath them.

Nathan sits up and then actually gets up, clumsily so. His eyes are still unfocused and darting. "You'd hate me if you knew me," he tells her, and his voice is stern, rushed. 

Max frowns. "What?"

"Alright, lie back down for me, Nate." Nathan's fingers slip from Max's as Nell eases him back down. He sits this time, looking up at Max, and his face is a barrage of emotions that swim around and collide and bounce off each other. 

"My hand slipped," he says, to no one in particular, even though he's looking at Max. He's talking through her, not to her.

"Your hand slipped?"

"And the bathroom bled because my dad killed my brother."

Max shoots Nell a confused look. "Is he—?"

"Don't worry," Nell steers Max backwards gently and smiles at her. "It's called disorganized speech. Word salads. When we get him back on course with his meds, he'll settle down."

Max's legs move in slow-motion. She says goodbye but Nathan doesn't answer her. He's muttering "Killer, killer, killer" when she leaves. The words follow her, orbiting around her mind like satellites as she leaves the hospital. 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Outside, it's pouring rain, great icy sheets that blow across the grounds of the hospital with force. Victoria is there, soaked, standing underneath the canopy above the door, her head tilted back against the wall. Her eyes are closed, but they flutter open when Max's splashing footsteps come, rousing her out of her thoughts. 

Victoria swallows and straightens up. "The bus will be here soon." 

Max takes a deep breath. "Victoria—"

"Save it. It's fine." She presses her lips together tightly. "I _knew_ it was a mistake coming here."

"It wasn't. Please, Victoria, you couldn't have known that he—"

"That he what? Clearly has lost his fucking marbles?" When Victoria turns to her, her eyes are angry, glassy with tears. " _You_ said he was okay!"

"He was! He really was." Max studies her closely. She can recognise guilt anywhere, on anyone. She's seen it staring back at her in the mirror often enough. "Victoria... this isn't your fault. You know that, right?"

"I just think it's  _funny_ that the one day I come to visit, the day that he  _knows_ I'm coming, he has a meltdown." Victoria wipes impatiently at the tears slipping down her cheeks, like she's pissed her body has the audacity to betray her like this. "He didn't want to see me, and he got himself worked up because of it."

"That's not true. You can't think that's true," Max says urgently. "You heard Nell. His parents are moving, there's stuff going on with the trial. He— he feels scared and abandoned."

" _Abandoned_ ," Victoria snaps. "Do you know who abandoned him?  _Me._  He said that everybody leaves him. I hurt him, Max."

"It wasn't you, it's his family," Max tells her firmly. "I saw him, when they brought him back to his room. He wasn't okay. He wasn't even  _nearly_ okay. Because the Prescotts are turning their backs on him yet again and he feels helpless about it. It's not about you."

Victoria chews on her immaculate nails. "He never took his meds before all of this happened, either," she says. "He used to really freak me out. It was... it was  _scary._ Seeing him break down like that, I–I couldn't go through that again."

"It's okay." Max's hand falls gently on Victoria's shoulder. At least this time, she doesn't shake it off. 

They stand there for a while, not speaking, just watching the rain come. By the time the bus arrives, pulling up noisily at the bottom of the lane, Victoria has stopped crying and Max's chest feels less like it's been scrubbed out with steel wool. She's still exhausted, well worn down from what's felt like the longest day of her life. She thinks about the warmth of her dorm and her bed and of being back at Blackwell, and it's finally what makes her feet unstick from the ground. Victoria follows close behind, her arms hugged tightly around her, and hair stuck damply to her forehead. 

"How did this happen?" Victoria murmurs. "Not just this, the hospital, but  _everything?_ " She huffs. "It's like a bad dream."

"We need to find out who ‘T’ is," Max tells her. "They must be what ties Sean Prescott to all of this."

"What if we don't figure it out, Max? The Prescotts have the best lawyers in the state, maybe even the country. Nobody is going to believe a couple of teenagers over them."

"We just need proof," Max says. "Something concrete, something that his fancy lawyers can't argue him out of." She exhales heavily. "I can't help but feel like Dean's trying to help us. He wants us to follow the trail like this."

"You're crazy," Victoria says, but with a faint note of awed amusement. 

Their shoes squelch wetly as they climb up the bus steps and find their seats. The bus is empty, save for them and a shrivelled old woman back from a day of shopping and two other Blackwell students, sitting with their feet against the seats in front of them, listening to music. 

Victoria suddenly looks grim, when Max glances at her. 

"What is it?" Max asks.

"We need help," she says. "If we're going to do this. If we're going to try and take Sean Prescott down. We need to tell Nathan."

Max saw the words coming, but her stomach still clenches tightly when they're out in the air. "And how do I start that conversation?" Max blurts. "Oh, by the way Nathan, we're trying to get your dad arrested because we think he's absolutely some kind of creep and,  _oh yeah_ , we also snuck around your house because we think your dead brother definitely had something to do with it too?"

Victoria scowls. "Look, I don't like it either, but we need Nathan. He's our closest link to Sean, whether we like it or not."

"He's going to be pissed."

"Probably. But I saw him with you back there."

Her tone makes Max look at her, perplexed. "What?"

Victoria's expression is strange. "He trusts you. If you tell him, if you explain everything, he might help us." 

"We are friends," Max admits. Her heart flutters a little. "But I don't know if I want to sacrifice that over a 'might'".

"He's going to find out eventually," Victoria argues. "Like, well, you do know that you're definitely going to be called as a witness to this trial, right?"

The thought makes Max's head hurt, sets her teeth on edge. Makes her want to crawl underneath her bed covers and not come out until it's all over, or the world has ended. Maybe both. 

"I don't want to think about that," she murmurs.

"Tough shit. You need to," Victoria snaps, though not unkindly. "You don't want Nathan to go to prison, right?"

"R–Right, but—"

"What you say up there in that witness box has to make everybody believe that Sean did this, that he was the fucking catalyst for all of this bullshit. You need to get your head straight and start thinking about what you're going to say. The Prescotts have the best attorneys that money can buy and, if you let them, they're going to be cut throat in their cross-examination. Don't let them intimidate you."

"I'm going to have to tell Nathan the truth," Max says. Her chest feels weird and tight. "That I was in the bathroom, that I-I knew Chloe--"

"Like I said, he was going to find out eventually." Victoria turns to watch the hospital disappear in the window, as the bus pulls off. "You just need to make sure that you tell him that before anyone else does." 

"God," Max rubs her eyes. 

Victoria looks at her, and when she speaks again, there's a softness to her voice Max is unused to hearing. "It'll be fine, Caulfield. We just have to convince Nathan that his father's an asshole and see if he remembers anything about what he and Dean were doing a couple of years ago."

"I don't think he knows—"

"Even the smallest thing could help us. He probably knows more than he thinks he does."

Max pauses. "Doesn't Nathan already  _know_ that his father is a super bad guy?"

"Yes and no. God, I don't know. He's brainwashed. They all are. Maybe he wants to take him down as bad as we all do, only he's scared. He has to know his dad's connection to Jefferson runs deeper than what it appears. Convince him, Max. You can do it."

"So we're doing this, then," Max breathes. "We're going to try and take down the most powerful guy in Arcadia." Her stomach knots up so quickly it almost makes her cough. "That's not terrifying at all."

Victoria snorts. " _He's_  the one that should be scared." She elbows Max in the ribs. "Don't you chicken out. You can do this. Do it for Chloe and Kate and Nathan, and everybody else who got caught up in this twisted bullshit."

"Nice pep talk," Max says, managing a smile. "I think a career in life-coaching awaits."

Victoria rolls her eyes. "I'm just starting to think you aren't as lame as I always thought you were. Don't ruin it." 

 

* * *

 

 

Three days later, Arcadia gets its first thunderstorm of the year. Max sits by her window, absorbed by the way the rain hammers the glass like it's trying to get in out of the cold. She counts the minutes between the deafening rolls of thunder, shivering every now and then. She watches the students that got caught in the downpour race up and down in search of shelter, coats held over their heads, umbrellas blowing backwards in their faces. 

Warren has invited her to the diner, but it's been one of those disconnected days, and all Max really wants to do is stay in her dorm and wait out this odd sensation that she's not participating in her own life. She paid little attention in class, even if she did hand in the photograph she took of Nell to Ms. Donnelly for the  _Inspire_ competition. She's actually handed in an assignment on time, and she's actually submitted a photo for something that's not school related, and yet, she can't really bring herself to engage with it. Ms. Donnelly had been so excited, talking animatedly about Max's photo and how it would really stand out, but all of her warm compliments that completely passed over Max's head. 

Ever since Jefferson, it's been difficult to take on compliments like that. After all, Jefferson had motivated her so much, or at least planted ideas in her head—ideas that maybe, just maybe, she had some kind of talent, and she didn't need a high-end camera like Victoria's or a style as distinctive as Kate's to use it. Max had her own thing, her own way of looking at the world, reflected through the way she looked through the lens. When she discovered the truth about him, all of his kindness had seemed so... dark, twisted. It screwed up her stomach and made her feel nauseous. She wonders now if it had even been genuine.

Ms. Donnelly is certainly no Jefferson, but even still, Max can't bring herself to take her new, better teacher's advice on board. She doesn't lock it proudly away in some corner of her brain to analyse to death and feel good about later, like she had with Jefferson; she just hears it, and tends to forget it. 

There's a knock at the door, and for one stupid second, Max considers ignoring it and making up some lie later about falling asleep.

But she can't. She's trying to be honest, at least now, and it's Warren. Warren, who  _never_ lies, who invites her to late afternoon lunches even in torrential thunderstorms, just so that they can hang out. 

Max swings her legs off the windowsill, and takes a deep breath as she opens the door. 

"Max!" Warren's smile is breezy and calm. "Ready for some Two Whales?"

"Warren,  _Jesus_ , where did you come from?" Max turns to grab her bag, leaving the door open for him to step in. "You look like you just took a dive in the swimming pool."

He's drenched, approaching  _I-might-get-pneumonia_ levels of drenched, his hair plastered to his head and the rainwater running in rivulets down his neck and damp clothes, and even still, he's smiling like it's tropical outside. "Nah, it's just really coming down out there. I only walked from the science lab." 

When Max turns to retrieve her coat from where she dumped it previously on the bed, Warren already has it, holding it up in that way that she has to turn around and slip her arms through.

"Oh, thanks." She smiles quickly, leaving no time for his fingers, cold and clammy with rain, to linger on her neck as he pulls the coat up around her shoulders. Max zips it up, pulling the hood of her white sweatshirt up in advance, and Warren waits patiently behind her in the hall as she locks the door.

"Hey!" He calls suddenly, "Alyssa, what's up?"

When Max looks, she spots a sleepy-looking Alyssa coming out of her room, a mug of tea in one hand and a paperback in the other. But Warren's voice startles her, and Max flinches as Alyssa jumps in surprise, her hand jerking and splashing her drink all over her book and her shirt.

"Oh,  _shit_ , my bad!" Warren jogs over, all awkward limbs, and starts trying to furiously wipe down the part of Alyssa's shirt that's slowly being attacked by a spreading tea stain.

Alyssa's eyes go wide. "Um—"

Max pulls him gently backwards by the shoulder. "Warren, you're groping her."

Warren flushes scarlet. "Oh, sorry—"

"Man, this was signed by the author," Alyssa grumbles, glancing down despairingly at her book, giving it a few wet shakes. She sighs wearily, but the smile she gives Warren is genuine. "It's cool, though. It's not my favourite."

Max is struck by the immediate desire to rewind and save Alyssa from another unfortunate experience, and she swears her fingers even itch with it, but she stops herself. All of the chaos and paranoia of last year has her seriously convinced that one ruined book today most likely means one super-powerful tornado tomorrow. She's trying not to piss off the universe anymore. In her head, she whispers a quiet apology to Alyssa, and her book.

Alyssa nods at them. "You guys heading out on this lovely sunny day?"

"Two Whales," Max says. "Wanna come?" 

"Can't, sorry. There's this creative writing workshop down at the library right now, and it didn't sound completely awful."

"That sounds awesome," Max smiles. "I didn't know you were into creative writing."

"I'm not, like, that serious about it. But when you read as many books as I do, I guess you can't really help it." Her eyes do a full, slow appraisal of them. "Plus, I wouldn't want to third-wheel you guys."

Max blushes. "It's not—"

"Write some rad sci-fi," Warren says then, cutting her off. "But you gotta put me in as some kind of space mercenary."

Alyssa smiles. "You'll be the main character." 

"Awesome!" Warren puts a hand on Max's back and she's suddenly falling into step with him, heading down the hall. "See you later, Alyssa!"

Warren drives them to the Two Whales in his rattly old car, and he keeps shooting her these  _looks_ every single time the thunder bellows above them in the darkening sky. Max can't help but laugh when she glances over and sees both of his hands, blooming ivory-white from the vice-like grip he's inflicting on the steering wheel.

" _You_  were the one who wanted to brave the storm," Max teases.

"I know, it's cool," Warren retorts, though more high-pitched than usual. "It's just noise at the end of the day, right?"

"Don't worry. Space mercenaries don't have to be afraid of thunder," Max elbows him, smirking. "No thunderstorms in space."

" _Actually—_ "

Max spends the next ten minutes listening to him recount an article about how lightning was found in the middle of a Mars dust storm, and it's nice as she doesn't have to think. The sight of the diner, barely visible through the blurred rainwater sheet on the window has her stomach growling in anticipation, and her feet carry her quickly down the steps and towards it with Warren following close behind,  _still_ talking about Mars.

It's unusually busy, and the various conversations all contained in the small diner space bubble up over the usual clash of silverware and the sounds of the lights, humming in their fixtures. The jukebox is playing something Chloe would despise and, fantastically, Max's usual table is free and waiting for them to sit down. 

Warren slides into the booth on one side and picks up the menu enthusiastically, his eyes practically doubling in size as he peruses it. 

"Do you know what you're going to get?" Max asks, sitting down across from him. Her bag is sodden, and she peeks inside to make sure her camera isn’t drowning in a puddle of rainwater.

"Mm, something deep-fried." 

Max is in the seat which gives the full view of the counter, and her eyes automatically flick over to look for Joyce. She's there, her skin warmly tanned, making her hair even blonder, softer, but there's a hardness to her features, too. Her eyes are narrowed, and her hands are gripping the edge of the counter tightly, like she's trying to stop herself from vaulting over it. Her lip curls back then, and Max can't hear the turret of aggression she lets somebody have, but from the poisonous glare of Joyce's eyes, she feels like she didn't need to hear.

Her heart sinks. Something's wrong.

Joyce having to give a customer some harsh words isn't new, but Max has only ever seen her snap at students, rude truckers, and in the past, any canvassing politician that made the unfortunate decision to wander in here and make their pitch. The victim of Joyce's yelling isn't any of these things, but in fact, seems like a normal adult. Max can't see them, their back is turned, but from what she can see, it's a woman. Not young, but not particularly old, around her mom's age or aunt Charlotte's. Her hair, black yet salt-and-peppered with gray, is twisted up into a tight, neat bun at the back of her head, and she's dressed in fancy clothes. Fancier than what usually wanders into the diner. Pencil skirt, expensive heels, a burgundy blouse without a single wrinkle. 

Max finds herself frowning. Warren follows her eyes, turning his head.

"What's up?"

"Joyce. She's giving some lady hell."

Warren shrugs and turns back around, disinterested. "Maybe she forgot to tip."

"I'm just going to see if everything's okay."

Warren catches her by the hand as she stands. "Wait— are you sure?"

Max shrugs, glancing back. "I'm nosy." 

She moves towards the counter slowly, the woman blocking her from Joyce's view, but she can hear every furious word coming out of her mouth. 

"— _will not serve you_ ," Joyce snaps. It's the angriest Max has ever heard her, and it sends a startled spike through her. "You're just gonna have to find another diner."

The woman tilts her head back and sighs heavily. "Please, I just want a coffee while I wait out this storm."

"You got some nerve," Joyce accuses. "You really do."

"Mrs. Price, I respect your business and, believe it or not, I have nothing but respect for your family. I'm not here to cause any trouble."

"Like hell you aren't." Max moves her head just slightly, and sees Joyce point furiously at the woman. "You're probably recording this conversation right now."

"I can assure you I'm not." The woman sounds tired. "I was in a car accident in a thunderstorm like this several years ago, and so now I don't like driving in these conditions. I just want to stay here and wait for this rain to let up. You don't have to come near me, and I won't go near you."

There is a fat silence, and Max can almost  _feel_ the way the air between them seems to be cooking. She holds her breath.

Finally, though, Joyce clicks her tongue and opens the cash register. " _One_ coffee, and that's it. You're out of here the second that rain lets up." The woman hands her the money and Joyce slams the register shut, like it's done her some personal offence. "I don't want my customers getting nervous."

The woman just sighs again and says, "Thank you." She spins and Max has to quickly side-step so that they don't collide.  

Joyce doesn't even notice Max at first. She's wiping down the counter with a rag, scrubbing it like she's trying to burn a hole in it. Up close, she looks exhausted and stressed, her mascara smudged at the corners and her forehead clammy with sweat. When she glances up and sees Max, it takes a few seconds for her frustration, visible in the hard line of her shoulders, to simmer down and finally evaporate. 

"Max, honey." Relief floods her at the return of the usual softness of Joyce's voice. 

"Hi, Joyce. How was the cruise?"

"It was, well," Joyce shrugs, "Needed. But here I am again, rushed off my feet as always."

"How's David?"

"Fine, Max, it's sweet of you to ask." Joyce smiles at her affectionately, but something about it is frayed at the edges. "How was your Christmas? Your parents doing okay?"

"It was great, they're great. Same as always. They wanted to thank you for the card."

"It was no trouble. And you make sure to thank them for theirs." Max knows her mother also attached a rather lengthy letter to Joyce all about Chloe and how sorry they were, but Joyce doesn't mention it and Max doesn't ask. Joyce's eyes drift over Max's shoulder. "Ah, so you and Warren."

Max must get some kind of look on her face, because Joyce laughs.

"I'm just teasing, honey. But he's really a nice young man. It's good to see you out with friends." She drops the rag on the counter and wipes her hands on her apron. Her arms are dusted up to the elbow with flour. "You go and sit down, I'll be over in a minute."

Max nods, and it's only when she returns to the table that she realises the woman in the red blouse is sitting in the booth in front of them, her back to them. 

Warren slides the menu across to her and stands. "I gotta go to the bathroom."

"Thanks for that visual."

He chuckles, heading off and around the counter to the restrooms. Max looks down at the menu; she could practically recite it after all of these years, or reproduce a perfect copy. 

She's in the middle of the life-changing decision that is  _eggs and bacon_ versus  _waffles and bacon_ when, suddenly, she becomes aware of the woman in front sliding around in her seat. 

"Excuse me," the woman says.

Max looks up, straightening in her seat. 

The woman smiles tiredly, and there is a kindness in her eyes that Max didn't expect. "Sorry, but by any chance, are you a student at Blackwell Academy?"

"Yeah, I am."

The woman has a light caramel complexion, and neatly painted, purple nails. "Oh, that's great. Do you happen to know whether Principal Wells was in the school building today?"

Max remembers seeing him in the hallway a few times throughout the day, the same as usual. She nods, and says as much to the woman.

"Thanks," The woman seems to be resisting the urge to roll her eyes. "He was avoiding me then." She shakes her head and mutters something Max doesn't catch.

"I'm sorry about Joyce," Max blurts. "She's— I overheard her yelling at you. She's just going through a hard time at the moment."

"You know Joyce?"

"I was friends with her daughter. She died last year, and it's been rough on everyone."

The woman's eyebrows raise. "You were friends with that girl? The one who was murdered?"

"It wasn't murder," Max says quietly. "It was— it was just an accident. A freak accident. It wasn't anybody's fault."

"You think so?"

"Oh,  _God_ above," Max jumps. She hadn't noticed Joyce coming to the woman's table holding a pot of coffee. But her indignation is directed at the woman, clear in the way she slams down her mug. "Have you no shame? You're harassing Max now?"

The woman's eyebrows arch. "Max--?"

"What did you do?" Joyce snaps. "Call up the school and find out what she looks like? Can you even do that? I  _will_ report you—"

"I don't know her," Max says quickly, "and she doesn't know me. She just had to ask me something, that's all."

But the woman is staring at her now. " _Are_ you Max Caulfield?"

Joyce scoffs. "Don't start."

"I didn't actually know this girl  _was_ Max Caulfield," she says, and Max looks at her in confusion. "But," She smiles. "I guess I'd be meeting you eventually, Max."

"...What?"

The woman extends her hand. "Carmin Silva. Lawyer for the Prescott family."

Joyce makes a disgusted sound. 

Max takes her hand nervously, like Joyce is going to slap her for it. She shakes it quickly and sits up even straighter, her mouth parting. "You're— you're Nathan's lawyer?"

"I am." Carmin's smile is all-business, but it's kind, too. "And you're a key witness. Guess we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

"Max is not your friend," Joyce glowers. "She wants to see Nathan Prescott put away for this just as much as we do. As much as this whole town does. You might have money, and you might be Sean Prescott's little Lieutenant, but this case is cut and dry."

"I'd rather not discuss the case when we don't have to, Mrs. Price."

"How you could even  _defend_ a boy like Nathan Prescott is beyond me," Joyce goes on, her voice rising. She looks like she's seriously considering dumping the entire contents of the coffee pot over Carmin's head. "He killed my daughter! He deserves to rot. We're going to see to it that he does." Joyce puts a hand on Max's shoulder then, like she's including Max in this, and her stomach twists. 

She might as well stick a knife in Joyce's back.

"Are you even allowed to ask Max questions before the trial?"

"I wasn't going to ask her anything, but if you have to know, yes. I can conversate with any witnesses. And," she nods at Max, "I will be, soon. I was planning on talking to you soon, anyway."

"Drink your damn coffee and get out of my diner." 

Carmin says, "It was nice to meet you, Max," and turns back around in her seat.

Joyce's hand is shaking as she pours the coffee. Max bites her tongue, because she wants to apologise, but she feels like if she opens her mouth, the whole truth and nothing but will come  _pouring_ out. 

Max orders for both her and Warren, and thankfully, by the time their food comes, Carmin has vacated the booth and left. 

As they eat, Warren watches Max studiously. "Are you okay?" he asks. "You look a little pale."

"I'm fine, sorry. Must just be the cold."

"Do you want my jacket?"

"No, it's okay." She sets her fork down and swallows. "I think I'm starting to get nervous about this trial, Warren."

"Don't be. You'll be awesome, you're awesome at everything."

"You're faith in me is seriously great, Warren, but I'm still terrified."

"So what's gonna happen?" Warren swipes a ketchup dollop off his chin. "You just tell the court what happened about two hundred times and that's it."

"That's not just it, though. The cross-examination, it can be brutal."

Warren smiles calmly. "Just tell the truth," he says. "Tell the truth and continue to be Max The Awesome and you can't go wrong."

Telling the truth, though, that's the problem: the root of the terror and the anxiety. 

The _truth_ involves time-travelling powers, for Christ's sake. Not exactly the kind of irrefutable evidence that holds up in court.

It's all kinds of messed up, Max knows, that the truth is Chloe basically gave her  _blessing_ to die. It's something Max is making peace with, or trying to at least, and the fact that she's being pushed to want to see Nathan burn in Hell is tearing her apart. Joyce thinks Max is on her side, while Nathan believes she's on his. She's standing in the middle of an earthquake and the world is crumbling. It all feels like  _another_ end of the world, another shitty ending that she can't escape. This was supposed to be the best choice. Chloe herself  _said_ it would be. Chloe had always been right. This... none of this is right.

Max's thought process about all of this is a train barrelling off its tracks. Nathan's killed somebody, but she doesn't want him to go to prison. Sean Prescott is a bad guy, but as far as everyone but Max is concerned, not  _that_ much of a bad guy. Chloe is dead, and everybody sees it as a colossal, horrifying mistake. To Max, it's apparently 'the best ending'.

"Max?" Warren is looking at her. She wonders how long she zoned out for.

Max forces a smile. "Max The Awesome? You can do better than that."

"Max The Wicked Witness!"

"Bad."

"Caulfield, Court Master."

" _Worse._ "

"Super Max?"

A real smile, this time. Sad at the corners. "I like that one."

 

* * *

 

  


Nathan calls two nights later, when Max has sealed herself away in her dorm and been installed at her desk for the past three hours, frantically reading everything she can get her hands on about witness statements and cross-examinations. And, for the love of God, swearing an  _oath._ She has to tell the truth. If she doesn't, she has to go through the rest of her life knowing she lied under oath. She's put herself through a lot these past few months, in several different realities, but she doesn't think she could do that to herself. She's not a liar. Never has been. Just a victim of circumstance and stupid time travel abilities.

So, when her phone starts to buzz on the pile of school books she's been ignoring, she almost doesn't hear it because she's so absorbed in legal jargon and thoughts of the judge dramatically bringing their gavel down. She pictures Carmin cross-examining her, and gets a lump in her throat. She seemed nice enough in the diner, but anyone who works for Sean Prescott is hardly a sweetheart. Far from it.

" _A patient from—_ "

Max holds her breath in tight after punching the '1'. The last time she saw Nathan is a moment she'd rather forget. And she's spent the past week so  _worried_ , stupidly worried, wishing she had the permission to ignore their Wednesdays at four only rule, and just show up on any other day. She wants him to be okay, needs him to be okay. Images of him shivering somewhere in the padded Quiet Room or punching the walls until he bleeds have permeated her week. 

It's funny. In a way, she almost feels like he's in this with her. They're just as confused and lost as each other. Even when he gets mad, or she gets frustrated, it only lasts for a moment, and it's easily forgettable. She always swells with the urge to just tell him, about  _everything_ , and feels like he'd get it. Not understand, per se, but get it. It's a different thing. 

She imagines him with the wild, disoriented look of last week and her breath won't come out. She waits. And waits. Listens to the dead air on the other end and  _hopes._

"...Yo? You there?"

"Nathan?"

"Max?"

She doesn't know how to describe it. She feels a soft blow to her underbelly and she's smiling, expelling her breath and pulling it back in quickly. "S-Sorry, yeah, it's me."

"Thought you hung up on me."

"No, no, I'm here." She stands up and moves to her bed, flopping down on it, her back against the cushions by the wall. "Um, hi."

"Hey."

She smiles again. It hurts her cheeks.

"Listen," Nathan says. His voice sounds hoarse, but he sounds okay. He really does. "About last week—"

"Don't worry about it."

"No, let me speak." He sighs impatiently. "I wanted to... Christ. I can't really remember much of what happened, but Nell said that you came in and managed to calm me down. And then I went nuts again and—"

"You didn't go nuts."

"I wasn't fuckin' chill, though, was I?" 

"You didn't take your meds. Nell said you  _broke_ like that because you didn't take your meds."

"Yeah." His voice is laced with shame. "I apologised to her."

"That's great."

"Well, she  _made_ me, but I would've done it anyway." He swallows. "Let me fucking apologise to you, though. I'm trying here."

"But you don't have to apologise—"

"The very first time you came to see me," Nathan interrupts, "You told me to get better. Not taking my meds was bullshit and I shouldn't have done it. So, sorry. I'm sorry."

"Okay. Apology accepted." She pulls one of the pillows towards her and hugs it against her chest. "Why did you stop taking them?"

"It— fuck, it was my hand."

"Your hand?"

"It was just shaking so bad, the meds were making it worse. And when my hands— when my hand  _shakes_ all I can think about is..."

Max's heart sinks.  _Chloe._

How did she never realise?

"I–it just messes me up. But it's fine, now. They switched me. I'm taking new meds, ones that don't make my hand shake. And they work better, too. It usually takes me a while to get over shit like what happened last week, but I'm okay now. Well, almost. And," he stops abruptly. "Fuck, am I talking too much?"

"No, not at all. It's nice to hear you talk more."

He makes an amused noise. "I'm just glad I didn't scare you off." 

"You could never."

He is quiet for a moment. Then, "...Was it fucked up?"

"What?"

"Me. When you went in my room."

Max hesitates, just briefly, and Nathan groans on the other end.

"Fuck, I knew it. Shit."

"It's okay," Max says. "You got through it." 

"I know, but." Pause. "I didn't want you to see me lose my shit like that."

"Seriously, don't worry about it." She leans her head back against the wall. "Victoria was there, too."

"What?" Nathan makes a spluttering sound. "Oh,  _shit_ — yeah, she was, wasn't she?"

"It was fine. I think she was just emotional, seeing you again."

An awkward pause. Max winces.

"Don't lie, Max."

"I guess it was just... a lot."

He sighs. Miserably. 

"I'm sorry. I'll try and get her to come again."

"No, don't waste your time."

"She's still your friend."

"She deals with shit in her own way. If she wants to be here, she'll come back herself. If not, whatever." 

Max doesn't respond. She feels restless, suddenly, and wishes she could see his face. He sounds quieter. 

"You're still coming next week though, right? I, uh, promise not to flip out."

Max laughs. She's never heard him try to be funny, before. "Just maybe try not to give Nell an aneurysm."

"She has about five a day, anyway." He falls quiet again, and this silence stretches on longer. "So, um, you probably know that I have this trial coming up."

Max freezes.

This is unexpected. 

"Uh, yeah. I, um, I heard about that."

"When I see you on Wednesday," Nathan goes on, "I wanted to, like, talk to you about it. We've never really talked about it." 

"I— yeah. We haven't." Max's voice sounds small and narrow. "I guess I thought you needed time."

"All I have is time. And I want to talk to you about it. You're at Blackwell, so you've heard things. Know things. You were new, right? When all of it went down? So people are probably trying to like, fuckin' influence you, or whatever. But I wanted you to hear it from me."

"Okay."

"It's just that, well, with the trial coming up, I know you've got my back. I figured I owe you an explanation."

His words hurt and feel warm, all at the same time.

"I'm not— Max, I'm a piece of _shit_ , but I'm not a murderer."

There's a noise in the background, someone's voice in the distance. Nathan grunts.

"There's a line behind me again. I gotta go."

"Nathan—" 

"See you on Wednesday." He sounds cheerful. It stings.

"Wait! Nathan—"

"Yeah?"

"Same. I mean," Her face feels hot. "I have some stuff that I want to tell you, too."

"Cool. I'll see you soon, then."

"Yeah."

He hangs up, and as always, the silence weighs down heavily.  

  



	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not anticipate the level of fluff that ended up being in this chapter, but the plot has been heavy lately and you guys deserve it. EMBRACE THE FLUFF. <3 And thank you to the ever-wonderful Kittiara for her hard work on this! 
> 
> As well as [ THIS](http://caulfiellds.tumblr.com/post/142320523251/nathan-sits-up-and-then-actually-gets-up-clumsily) extraordinarily beautiful art, this fic also recently passed the 1000 kudos mark???? I am???? In awe?? THANK YOU!!! You all get cookies and my undying gratitude. <3
> 
> Also! I realised I greatly underestimated the time it would take to wrap up this fic with a bow, so you guys can expect considerably more chapters until the finale. So, yep, I'll be punishing you with my writing for a little longer! ;D

 

Max has been through a lot in the past few months, and in several different timelines. She has burned through realities faster than flame spreading through thin paper and witnessed every possible outcome to every decision she could have made. She's faced the vile wrath of an unhinged former photography idol, experienced the crushing waves of losing Chloe over and over again, and ran through the storm-battered streets of an Arcadia Bay that had been falling to pieces. 

She's been through it all, and yet, here she sits in her dorm room and she can't recall feeling this anxious in a long time. 

The crisp, clean and empty page of her journal sits in front of her, intimidating as hell and almost teasing her to get up and go at it. The pen in her hand twitches as she turns it over and over, clicking and unclicking it, pressing the tip to the first line about a hundred times, but not being able to write a single thing.

The last entry is October 1, 2013. The sight of it there, printed neatly at the top of the page, stings like she's been jabbed with something.

A lifetime ago.

She rereads the words and it's like someone else wrote them. Yet another Max, another alternative universe. The Max that she had become when she'd time-travelled through that old photo, the Max with the pricey clothing and the circle of popular best friends, the Max without Chloe, she hadn't felt even a semblance of connection to her; even though it  _was_  her. That Max had been just a blurry echo, and honestly, she'd been a stranger. Max had looked in the mirror then and the eyes staring back at her were as foreign as someone she had never met before. 

It feels like that, now. Max reads the last entry, reads the rambling innocence and the almost painful breeziness. She sounds mundane and she sounds eighteen; writing about Halloween parties like they are the most important thing in the world, about the weather. Max shakes her head. Her world was smaller, then. Her heart was different.

The Max who wrote this is as unrecognisable to her as the Max in the reality where William had lived. Max runs her fingers across the tidy handwriting that is completely her own, and her breath catches because it's not her anymore. Somewhere along the way, she lost this girl. She's gone. 

Max's eyes get stuck on the opening sentence. 

_October. My favorite month._

Her jaw tightens. She wants to laugh, she wants to cry, she wants to scribble over the whole entry and then tear it out, crumple it up, and burn it. 

Something like grief blooms in her chest, and for the first time, she recognises it as a different kind of grief. It's not a tight, hollow curl for Chloe, but instead for herself. She's grieving for this Max, who didn't deserve this. 

It makes her angry. That thought rams into her train of thought and loops, back and forth, back and forth. She's startled by it: the rage. It comes in spasms and she huffs out a series of breaths, pushing herself back from her desk forcefully. 

She didn't deserve this.  _Any_ of this. And neither did Chloe. 

Max had never been the type of person to get angry in this way, this stereotypical way of burning lungs and a chest that feels set to explode. She had always been more of the simmering type, her voice low, never raising it. Keeping the anger inside, carefully controlled. 

She feels, for the first time, it snap loose like a rubber band.

She grabs the journal and spins. She hurls it hard against the opposite wall, unable to hold in the breathless shout of frustration that pushes up her throat. It hits the wall above her bed with an audible smack and falls. 

If she doesn't recognise that Max—if she feels  _nothing_ for her—then what is she now? Is this who she really is? This is what fate or the universe or God even has decided to leave her with? Panting, coiled and  _enraged_ in an empty room? Is this really the Max that she is supposed to be, this is the final reality?

Before now, she'd never really questioned it. Kept those kind of thoughts bound up in chains and ignored them, didn't even want to consider them. But now, they flood into her mind and shout in voices that scramble over one another and Max is overwhelmed with it. 

She didn't deserve this. 

She was a good person, a good friend. She was— _is_ _—_ awkward , and kind and cautious. She never used to take risks. So why  _punish_  her? She never asked for those powers, never even wanted them in the first place. The fun that came from rewinding had worn off quickly, trickling out like color dripping from a gray canvas. 

Whose idea was it to give her them, to plunge her into that chaotic mess, and leave her with all of this?

Max storms back over to her bed and flips to the blank page waiting for her. She cuts into the page with her pen, the black ink etched like she's trying to carve the words in forever.

_I didn't deserve this._

She throws the journal back onto her pillow and whirls, hands going to pull at her hair, unbrushed. Her breath is shaky and strange, cold in her chest. Slowly, she feels the anger ebbing away, leaving her piece by piece and dissolving, and she's left with a tremendous lurch of exhaustion, of frustration, of wanting to go to sleep though she just woke up. She sits down on the edge of the bed and sighs out the remaining burn, but even when it's gone, she still feels the marks it left behind. Staining her eyelids red, almost, smoking like cooling ashes in the middle of her gut. 

The rage is gone, but it will return. 

 

* * *

 

  


Max is just coming out of World History, earbuds in and a Ray Bradbury audiobook flowing out, when she glances down the half-full corridor and sees a familiar face moving around the corner, towards Principal Wells' office. 

Max pulls out her earbud, and stares. It was barely a glimpse, but she was  _sure_ —

"Hi, Max." 

She jumps, startled at the sudden presence of Kate at her shoulder. She rolls her earbuds in a tight coil around her phone and turns to Kate, smiling apologetically.

"Oops, sorry," Kate hoists the strap of her back higher up her shoulder as she looks at her, concerned. "I hope I didn't scare you."

Max touches her shoulder kindly. "Not you, it's me. I've been a little jumpy lately."

Kate smiles. "Well, it sounds to me like you're in need of a nice cup of tea." 

"You're so right. Thank you, Kate." 

Max glances down the hall, slowly emptying now as the students file into classrooms or out of the building. She follows Kate down the length of the hallway and they turn left for the main doors. There's no one outside, or in, Wells' office. Max shakes her head, just to herself. 

It's a nice day outside, the heavy downpours over for the moment. The sky is bright and almost like a welcome as they descend the steps. The sunlight is warm, but not too warm—pleasant and mixed in with a light wind. Max is still experiencing these up-and-down bumps of tension and anxiety, and she tips her head back and allows the warmth to envelop her skin. 

The front stretch of campus is bustling, with the usual crowds of skateboarders, optimistic sunbathers and people hanging out. Samuel rakes leaves by the gushing fountain and Max waves at Warren, who is sat under the shade of a tree across the way with Alyssa and Daniel. He waves back enthusiastically.

"We should have our tea out here," Kate suggests, "What do you think?"

"Of course." There's a small café on campus, just around the corner of the gym. "Will I go get our tea?"

Kate shakes her head. "You went last time. You can get us a bench."

Max hands her the money for her tea and they move off in separate directions. The air smells like freshly cut-grass, and Max's heart lifts at the sight of a free bench, half in the shade and half out. She drops her messenger bag onto it and sits down, her lips twitching at the usual splash of graffiti etched onto the wood. She raises her head and looks around. 

It takes a moment for her eyes to take in the sight by the exit, where the shrubs come up and the path trails towards the dormitories.

It's Carmin Silva, the Prescott family's lawyer, dressed in a cream pantsuit and talking to David, her arms crossed defiantly across her chest. As Max stares, it's soon apparent that ' _talking'_   isn't exactly the right term. David's shoulders are stiff, and it's clear from the way he leans in that he's hissing something at her, angry and frustrated. Carmin stares coolly back at him. She says something brief, something which makes David jab his finger in her face, and then he turns and storms away, fists balled up and his face thunderous. 

Max flinches as he passes her. It really was Carmin that she'd seen in the hall, then.

Almost on cue, Carmin's steady gaze sweeps across the campus and she spots Max. 

Max finds herself shifting uncomfortably in her seat, as Carmin approaches. She comes to a stop by the table, smiling.

"Max, we meet again." She extends her hand and Max takes it, after a brief hesitation. She's half-expecting David to march back over and launch into another tirade. 

"Um, hi," Max replies, and then, before she can't stop herself, blurts, "Um, what are you doing here?"

Max immediately flushes at the way Carmin's eyebrows cock, amused. 

"I'm— sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I just didn't expect to see you."  _Way to go, Max._ "Are you here to see Principal Wells?"

"Saw him," Carmin answers. "This morning. For all of six minutes."

"Oh."

"It doesn't matter. At least he stopped avoiding me." She folds her arms again. "That security officer of yours, though, Mr. Madsen. He definitely didn't want to avoid me."

Max grimaces. She imagines David's words for her were a lot like Joyce's, except probably more profanity-filled. "It must be hard being a lawyer."

"I've got a tough skin," Carmin says breezily. "Just doing a job. I know Joyce wants you to see me like some kind of heartless monster, but I'm not."

The woman is intimidating and gives off a rather unnerving  _I-could-kill-you vibe,_ but she's not cold. Max feels comfortable enough to say, "You're the Prescott's lawyer. You can't expect people to be your biggest fan."

"I suppose not." Carmin eyes her curiously.

"Have you worked for them for long?"

"I've known Sean Prescott since I was an associate," Carmin says. "That's well-over twenty years ago, now. Been working for him and Scarlett ever since."

"And you're... like, friends?"

Carmin laughs at that, but not unkindly. "They're clients, but sure, I'd say I know them pretty well. More than most." Carmin glances at the other side of the bench, as if contemplating sitting there. She does, to Max's surprise, smoothing her hands down her skirt. She nods at Max from across the table. "I said back at the diner that I'd like to talk to you."

Max nervously considers the possibility that Carmin is recording this conversation. It seems like something a Prescott lawyer would do, or is she just watching too many bad crime dramas? But  _what if._ "Um, okay? I guess."

"Don't look so nervous. It's not an interrogation," Carmin says. "I just want to hear your side of the story. As much or as little as you want to tell me."

Max's knowledge of law is limited, even poor, and she tends to drift into an endless ocean of daydreaming whenever anything too technical is ever around her, but she does know about confidentiality. Carmin's not her lawyer. She's liable to repeat anything Max says to the Prescotts.

Max breathes evenly. She needs to be careful here.

"Did you know Nathan before the incident last year?"

"Uh, yes. I did." Max stops herself there.  _Details, Max. Watch those details._

"And you were in the bathroom when it happened?"

"Yes."

"And what happened?"

Max frowns. "You know what happened."

Carmin nods. She seems satisfied with that answer, for some reason, or maybe she's not allowed to press Max on it.

Max shifts around, nervous. "What's going to happen at the trial? What do I have to do?"

"You're going to testify in front of the court about what happened and what you saw. You're going to be asked questions by each side and then you get to go. That's all. Just questions and answers."

 _That's all._ Max has the feeling it's not so straight-forward as Carmin is describing.

"And Nathan will be there, when I'm testifying?"

"Yes. He'll be in court for the duration of the trial, now that he's been deemed fit enough."

Max worries her lip between her teeth. She tries to picture Nathan sitting there, watching his face crumple as she starts talking and he realises. All of it. 

It makes her shudder. Carmin doesn't notice.

"Will Mr. Prescott be at the trial?"

"Yes. He is also a witness."

"He is?"

"As Nathan's father, and furthermore, as the owner of the barn in which the police discovered the Dark Room."

Max feels foolish. She didn't even think about it. Her stomach is suddenly sick, cramping up.

"Can I ask you something?" she asks the older woman.

"Sure."

"What kind of outcome are you looking for? For Nathan, you know. What would be a win for you?" Max looks and can see Kate coming, still in the distance but she'll be here soon. "Do you want Nathan to be cleared or something?"

"He's not going to be cleared."

"What?"

"The best, and I do mean  _best_ outcome? Mark Jefferson gets the bulk of the sentencing and Nathan is found guilty, but mentally ill. He gets a sentence in a psychiatric facility and then maybe a transfer to a minimum-security prison."

Max blinks, trying to understand, to take it in all of that information. 

Kate is closer, holding two take-away cups of tea and what looks like a bag of cookies. Max feels a gush of protectiveness wash over her. She doesn't want Carmin to talk to Kate about this, not yet. 

But before she has to think up some way of getting Carmin to go, the lawyer is standing up and holding out her hand again. "Thank you, Max. I really do appreciate you talking to me. I'll probably speak with you again soon."

Max shakes her hand, aware of the clamminess of her own hands. "Okay. Um, see you."

Carmin's gone by the time Kate gets back to the table. Max takes the tea and a delicious-looking big cookie from her gratefully, biting into it because her head feels sort of dizzy, like her blood sugar has dropped.

"Who was that lady?" Kate asks conversationally, brushing her hair out of her eyes. 

"Her name's Carmin." Max's hand curls tight around her tea. "She's Nathan's lawyer."

Kate stares at her for a beat, a piece of cookie paused at her lips. "...Oh. What did she want?"

"Just to talk to me. I'm a witness." Max remembers then, she remembers about Kate. "I guess she'll be coming to talk to you."

Kate's shoulders sink. "I wish I didn't have to testify. It's going to be so scary."

"I'm scared too," Max admits. Scared about a lot of things. "But at least we have each other."

Kate squeezes her hand and takes a long sip of her tea, the sun streaming golden through her hair. "How is Nathan?" she asks softly, after a minute.

Max told her about last Wednesday, and it had felt kind of fantastic to unload all of that anxiety. Victoria knows about her relationship with Nathan, too, but she's not exactly the comforting type, not in the same way Kate is. It's nice to have her to talk to about this, even if Max does find herself holding back sometimes. She's still not sure how Kate feels, and she's not said anything about wanting to go to St. Dymphna's since she brought it up. Max is trying to ease her into all of this.

"He's okay. Much better." Max traces a finger around the rim of her cup. "He called me a few days ago. It was great. I like talking to him, you know? I like seeing him."

When there's a pause, it makes her look up. Kate's head is tilted, and she has this  _look_ on her face. Soft, surprised. Like she's suddenly realised that one and one is two after a lifetime of being told differently.

Max frowns. "What?"

"You're blushing."

Max quirks a brow. "I am not."

"Um, should I take your picture?" Kate laughs then. "Max, are you and Nathan...?"

"What? No! We're friends."

"But...?"

"But nothing." Max swallows. Her mouth has gone dry. "Kate, seriously, stop looking at me like that!" 

Kate shrugs her shoulders loosely. "He sounds different. Healthy. If you and him are, well,  _something_ , I'd understand. And I'd support you. I know I haven't visited him yet, but... the way you describe him now? I'm not as nervous about it as I was before. He sounds truly sorry."

"He is. But Kate, really, there isn't anything... uh, happening." Max finishes lamely, her face burning.

"Okay, I believe you. But if there  _was_ ," Kate smiles at her warmly. "I just want you to know, it's— it's okay. It wouldn't freak me out, or anything."

Max falls quiet. There's a strange twist going on in her stomach, continuous and rolling. "I have to tell him about me being there, about knowing Chloe. I don't want him to find out at the trial."

"And what about Mr. Prescott?" Kate says. "Are you going to tell him about Dean and everything?"

"I have to. God," Max scrubs a hand over her face, sighing. "Why is nothing ever easy anymore?"

Kate smiles softly. "It's the Prescotts'. Nothing's ever easy with them."

 

 

* * *

 

On Wednesday, Max walks into the ward armed with a banana sandwich and the third book in the Baker series, given to her that morning by Warren under the premise that she's now an established Baker fangirl. The weather is keeping up its good behaviour, and Max feels unusually summer-y, smiling politely at strangers as her visitor's badge bounces on the front of her sweatshirt. 

Nell is dealing with a "situation" in another ward, Max is told, but the rosy-cheeked, middle-aged woman behind the desk is kind and friendly and informs Max that she'll go get Nathan from his room. 

Max goes over to the window and watches the sunlight glint off of the lighthouse as she waits for him. The ward is again back to the familiar hustle and bustle of families and friends that she's most comfortable with, and the air is stuffy and humming with activity. A family is gathered around a tired-looking young man in a chair by the window, handing him birthday cards. Max is weirdly transfixed by the scene. 

She's about to take out her camera when Nathan's voice calls out from behind her. 

"Hey," he says, ambling up the hallway in his usual slouch, but there's an unusual cheer there. Or something close to it. He's dressed lightly for the weather, in a pale blue pair of the hospital's pants and a long-sleeved shirt, the chest snow-white and the sleeves a soft gray. 

Max lifts a hand in shy greeting, her eyes falling on the clean white bandage wrapped around his right hand. He looks better, still quite tired, but better. Last week seems like it happened last year. Max feels a surprising sense of what feels like pride at his quick recovery.

When Nathan gets to her, he holds his arms out and Max is so surprised by it for a moment, not reacting at first, that a flash of nervousness ghosts over Nathan's eyes. She makes herself move, though, and Nathan's small smile passes her as she puts her arms around his shoulders. She has to stretch. Max is struck by the scent of him, like standard, vanilla-ish hospital soap and yet something else underneath it, something that just smells like Nathan. Familiar and warm. 

When they break apart, Nathan brings a hand up to tug on his hair and nods at the pale blue sky. "Want to go outside?"

"Sure. Lead the way."

They embark upon the usual path to the elevator. During the descent, Max keeps looking over at him. She tells herself it's the awe of seeing him so brightened again after last week's rollercoaster. The doors ping open a moment later and Nathan follows her, this time, out through the glass doors and into the gardens.

Apparently most of the other visitors had the same idea, because it's busy. People and the patients they're visiting are sat on the benches, sat on the grass, inspecting the sea of flowers and chatting to the orderlies that are milling around on supervision. Max looks down when they step on the smooth concrete path, the one that winds around the entirety of the gardens, flanked by shrubs and flowers and fountains, and when Max begins walking, slowing down her pace, Nathan follows easily.

"Thanks," he says when Max hands him the sandwich, taking a bite. His eyes light up at the sight of the book, tucked under her arm. "Awesome. Thank you. I finished the second one last week but, you know," He coughs. "I didn't get the chance to mention it."

"How have you been?" Max asks him. "You know, since?"

"Fine. I'm still in a hospital, I'm still mad, but you know, fine." He crosses his arms. "Got new meds, better ones." 

"Good." Max smiles at him, and he returns it. The path forks, with one side heading back around and the other continuing down to the bottom of the gardens. There's a few people around, sitting in the grass and talking. "Do you want to sit?" Max asks.

Nathan gestures for her to lead the way. Max moves over to a tree and sits down on the soft grass, Nathan sinking down next to her, facing her. 

"Nice fucking day," he says. He wipes the crumbs off his knees and crumples up the bag the sandwich had been wrapped in, stuffing it in his pocket. His hand brushes on something else, and he makes a noise like he's remembered something. "Yeah, right, I wanted to show you this."

He pulls out a small folded piece of paper and leans over to pass it to Max. 

"What is it?" she says, unfolding it. Nathan's handwriting is all over it.

"I made a list," he declares, sounding proud. 

"A list?"

There's a list of names going down the page, with a longer column on the left than the right. Names like  _Kate, Victoria, Logan, Kristine, Harry,_ and _that weirdo with the accent_ , a bunch of others. Mostly Blackwell students, and names Max doesn't know.

Max glances at him, amused. "But what _is_ it?"

"A list of everyone that I was a dick to," Nathan answers simply. "My psychiatrist said I should make one. There'll all the people that I owe, like, an apology."

Max's heart flutters for some reason, and she's smiling. "That's really, really cool Nathan."

"I'm trying to not be a piece of a shit anymore."

Max hands the list back to him. "That 'weirdo with the accent' is called Daniel, by the way."

"Daniel, right! I'll make a note of it when I get a pen." He folds it and puts it back into his pocket, and then he pulls up a handful of grass and starts shredding it absent-mindedly, like he's nervous. "Listen, uh, you remember that I said I wanted to talk to you?"

Max nods, and she's momentarily relieved that he doesn't see the way her smile instantly falls off her face. "Yeah. About— about why you're here."

"You told me a while ago," Nathan starts, and he's not looking at her, eyes on his now green-stained fingertips. "You know what happened. And I mean, of course you fuckin' do. You go to Blackwell, but..." He sighs. "I know that everybody hates me. They should hate me, I know that, what I did was— the kind of  _person_ I am, how could they fucking not? But I just wanted you to know my side of the story."

"Okay." Max's hand curl in her lap, and she tries to look calm. 

"My family," Nathan continues, "We— fuck, we're not a family. We're not a family. We're a  _firm_." He lets the shredded grass in his hand flutter to the ground and he pulls out another small clump. "It's how it's always been, at least from what I can remember. My dad already had Dean, he had him to mould and to fucking  _ruin_ , so he didn't need me. I got... twisted up in things. I don't know what the fuck I was looking for, maybe, I don't know, validation? Acceptance? I messed around with drugs and I drank and I lost my goddamn mind."

"Maybe it was for attention?" Max offers weakly. 

Nathan considers it. Really considers it. "Probably. I wasn't talented like Dean, wasn't smart like Kristine, wasn't a prodigy like Harry. If I couldn't get attention that way, I guess I thought I'd get some by being the family fuck-up." He looks away. "Then, Dean had to go and die."

The silence that follows is charged, but Max doesn't speak. She waits. 

Max has never seen Nathan like this before. She's seen him catatonic, cheerful, relaxed, furious and she's seen him broken. She's never seen this emotion, the one that coats his eyes glazed as he sits, burns behind his eyes. Grief.

"Kristine fucked off to Brazil, because that's what she does. Whenever something happened in our family, whenever my father or my mom were pissed at us or things just got a  _little_ too hard, she always left. For days, weeks. But this time, I knew she probably wasn't coming back." He presses his knuckles, the ones on his unbandaged hand, into the earth. "So, with her gone, there was just me and Harry. And as much as he wanted to, I knew Dad wasn't going to ask Harry to fill Dean's shoes."

"You didn't want to do it."

"Hell no. My father is—" Nathan pauses, bites his lip. "I'm not blind. I'm not stupid. I know what he is." Pause. "What he does."

Max goes still.  _Does he...?_  The possibility that Nathan could start the conversation that she struggled to, that he already  _knew_ about his father, it had never occurred to her before.

"Nathan," Max says, with such seriousness that he finally looks at her, long and steady. "Was— What do you  _know?_ "

"He thinks he's  _smart_ ," Nathan bites out the words with venom. "He thinks he's the fucking King of the World. But I know; I know what he is." Nathan has gone suddenly rigid, every limb clenched. He looks at her then, and hesitates. He opens his mouth and seems to be considering whether he should.

"You can tell me," Max says, and her voice sounds strange. Heavy.

"I know I can." Nathan replies, the tiniest twitch coming to his lips before it falls away. "It's the Dark Room, Max. The place where— where it all happened."

Max's heart is pounding. "Your father knew about it?"

" _Knew_  about it?" Nathan scoffs. "Max, he was the fucking  _ringleader._ "

Nathan's face is flushed, and Max is able to recognise the intensity of wanting to get this truth out. She knows what it's like. 

"It wasn't just Jefferson," Nathan adds quietly. "It was his job to take the pictures, but he didn't do it for his own freaky collection or anything."

"W-What do you mean?"

"I'm talking about a ring."

"A— what?"

"There's a lot of money to be made in messed-up shit. And my father likes  _both_  money and messed-up shit."

"Your father was working with Jefferson?"

Nathan nods. "Neither of them ever talked about each other, but I knew. When Jefferson," Nathan winces, but continues, "When he took me on as his little apprentice or whatever, the second I stepped into that Dark Room, I fucking knew. My father's connections were all over the place. He might as well have put up a fuckin' picture of himself above the desk."

"I don't understand," Max's face feels hot, there's something close to adrenalin in her veins, burning her. 

"Jefferson might be some famous photographer, but there's no way he could have afforded  _half_ of the shit in there." Nathan says. "And it was always showing up, too. Shipments of new cameras and fancy lights. I thought about it, and there was no way a single person could keep orders coming in all the time like that. Not without money. Big money. And someone with connections."

"Nathan," Max just says his name. Nothing else is really coming out.

"Whenever we got a new girl, Jefferson would put her pictures in a folder and that was that. I thought so, anyway. But then, I saw him once. Making up other folders. You know, like, copies? He'd put them in these big cardboard boxes and put them in the trunk of his car. It's how I figured out it really wasn't just him, behind all of it. He must have been shipping the pictures to other people. People like him."

Max feels sick. The nausea is hot and wet and makes her head spin. "Oh my  _God._ "

Nathan looks away again. He looks ashamed.

"And then one night, I heard my father on the phone to Jefferson in his office. I heard my father talk about "clients" and shit like that." Nathan shuts his eyes for a second. "The weirdest thing was, I wasn't even that surprised. My father will make money off whatever he can. That kind of thing, a ring like that, it was just another business venture."

"Did you confront him?"

"Hell no. Do you know why?" Nathan's eyes flare. "Because I'm a fucking coward, Max. I always have been."

The air has gotten colder, the sun starting to set, and Max knows they probably don't have much time left but she doesn't want to go. She can't believe he knew all this. 

"Jefferson manipulated me," Nathan goes on. "My state of mind was— I was barely fucking functioning. He used me. I–I wanted to impress him." He stops, hands curling in the grass. "He made me feel like I was part of something. A fucked-up something, but I was so gone back then I— it doesn't justify it, and I'll hate myself forever. But I want you to know I didn't go into all of it wanting to hurt anyone." 

Max can't speak. She just nods. 

"Looking back on it," Nathan says, "I think Jefferson just kept me around as, I don't know, fuckin' insurance. I knew too much, he should've killed me. But maybe he was just trying to make sure my father kept helping him take the photos and distribute them. But that can't be right, either. My father doesn't give a fuck about me."

Max recalls Sean's desk drawer. The keepsakes. There are tears in her eyes. Hot, blurring her vision.

"I remember," Nathan says, "the day that Rachel Amber went missing, my father got a phone call that made him leave the room. I followed, and I listened outside his door."

"Rachel Amber," Max says then, whispers it. 

Nathan nods. "Jefferson fucked up. He killed her, Max. She tried to fight back and she fought too hard. He gave her an overdose. I listened to my father and I heard him throw something at the wall and I just ran back to my room. The next day, the posters started going up, and Jefferson acted like nothing had happened."

Max's hand comes up to cover her mouth. "He killed her? Are you  _sure_ he killed her?"

Nathan shoots her a weird look. "I don't forget shit like that." 

Max remembers Jefferson in the Dark Room, when she was tied up. How he'd stumbled over his words and corrected himself, slipping just for a second. 

"You need to tell the cops."

And Nathan laughs. Shrill. "Right, because they're just totally on my side, right?"

"Why not tell them about the ring?" Max babbles. "Nathan, you  _need_ to. Your father needs to go to jail for this."

"It won't  _do_ anything," Nathan protests. "He's fucking corrupt. He probably has everybody at this trial wrapped around his finger. He'll buy them off. I know he already has power over the police. If I tell them, they'll tell my father and he'll make sure I never get out of this place. Never."

Max blazes. "You _can't_ sit back and do nothing. You can't. I won't let you."

" _No_ ," Nathan snaps. "I don't want you to get caught up in this, understand?"

Max hooks his gaze, and holds it sternly. "What if we found proof?" 

Nathan scoffs. "Yeah, good luck."

"If I can find enough proof, will you testify that your father was behind all of this?"

Nathan stares at her, open-mouthed. "Max—"

"Will you?"

"Fuck...  _yes,_ but—"

"If you want to get out of here," Max tells him, "If you want to make sure that this never happens again, and give every girl in those folders closure, you'll have to."

Nathan says nothing. But he's looking at her strangely, searching her face.

"Why do you come here?" he asks her, out of nowhere, and Max blinks at him in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"You're— you're a good person, Max. Probably the best one I've ever met." He shakes his head, confused. "Why do you even give a shit about me? You don't even know me."

"I don't know you?" Max repeats, feigning offence. "After all of this time?" 

_Literally, all of this time._

"It's just weird. I," He breaks off. "I don't deserve this shit."

And then Max, for some reason, thinks about the patient back in the ward, and the birthday cards. "When's your birthday?"

Nathan scowls. "August 29th.  _Why_ the fuck—"

"There. Now I know something about you." 

Nathan stares at her, frown firmly in place, and then suddenly it melts away and he's _laughing_. She's never heard him laugh before. It's kind of cute. He looks like Harry when he laughs.

"You're fuckin'  _weird_ , Max Caulfield." He shakes his head again, and after allowing a moment of silence to pass between them, when he's just looking at her with blue eyes that are so calm for once, he says, "I still have more to tell you. That was only the messed up beginning."

"Next week, then," Max replies, and Nathan looks honestly stunned.

"You still don't wanna run for the hills, huh?"

"Nope. Do you?"

He gives her another weird look, half-smiling, half-confused, but Max can see the affection in it, how it rests softly in his eyes. Her ears flush hot. 

"Hell no."

"Sunbathing, are we?" Max turns at the sound of Nell's voice, and smiles when she sees the nurse coming down the path towards them. 

"Um, no," Max jokes, and when Nathan stands he holds out his hand to help her up. "I'm Irish, I burn in approximately six seconds."

Nathan hesitates for a second before he lets go of her hand. When Nell reaches them, he moves towards her and pats his pocket. "Showed her the list," he says.

"Good. You better act on it now," Nell teases. "How come my name's not on your wonderful apology list, even though you piss me off every day?"

Nathan smirks. "I'll start with you then.  _Sorry_ , Nell."

Nell swats him, rolling her eyes, and sends Max one of her usual smiles. "Same time next week, Max?"

"You know it." Nathan turns to her then, almost nervously, and Max is thankfully quick to notice his intentions this time. She pulls him into a hug, eyes shutting, and doesn't miss the way his hands squeeze her waist before they pull away.

She follows Nell up the path, Nathan following, and Nell keeps glancing at her with these  _looks_ that have her biting her lip, suppressing a smile. 

  


 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK AT [ THIS](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MHA9ZRhk4zA) AMAZINGNESS!!!??? LIKE? Wow, wow, wow. I honestly think I watch it an average of 50 times a day.
> 
> Thank you as always for the support and the incredibly kind feedback. And endless thanks to Kittiara for looking over this while she's in the midst of her finals! I really hope you enjoy this one - until next time! :) <3

 

"You threw your journal at the wall?"

"I— yeah."

"Oh." 

Max winces. "Is that... bad?"

"No, not at all." Ms. Owens smiles at her, warm and encouraging, and writes something down. "I'd call it progress."

"Progress?" Max repeats. "I–I don't think flipping out is progress."

"It's something." Ms. Owens clicks her pen in this cheery way that Max has become used to. "I'd encourage you to 'flip out' more, actually. But  _maybe_ hold back on damaging school property." 

"It did feel pretty good," Max admits, surprising herself. "After, I mean. In the moment, it kind of sucked."

"You're entitled to get angry, Max. God knows you've been through the ringer. I want you to remember that, okay? Say it yourself. 'I'm  _entitled_ to not be happy today', or, 'I'm  _entitled_ to feel frustrated right now'."

"I'm entitled to feel frustrated," Max tries. There is no grand transformation to her soul, she isn't cured in that split-second and she doesn't feel the sudden and extraordinary urge to dance out of therapy. But she does feel something—the weightiness of the words, how they settle at the back of her brain and thrum. 

"There you go. Keep that in mind. Write it down, somewhere where you can see it." Ms. Owens sits up straighter. In the pale sunlight streaming through the chinks in the blinds, Max can see the fluttering of dust, falling in soft circles. "So," the other woman continues, "You threw your journal at the wall, which tells me you actually had your journal in your hands. Did you write anything?"

"I... couldn't."

"Why is that?"

"I know I shouldn't have, but," Max worries her teeth down on her lip, pausing. "I read back over the old entries, from—from before. And they just seemed so...  _ridiculous._ I was worrying about stupid stuff."

"Like what?"

"Parties, meeting people," Max says, shrugging. "The Everyday Heroes contest."

"Those don't sound stupid to me," Ms. Owens remarks. "Reading back over old thoughts and worries is often strange, because what's on the page is stagnant. It doesn't change, but you do. Every day. Can I ask you, when you were reading it, did you feel like that journal was written by somebody else?"

Max is so startled that all she can do for one long, slightly embarrassing moment is stare at her.

"Y-Yeah. Totally."

"When someone goes through a traumatic event, like you did, it changes a person. And I don't just mean psychologically." Ms. Owens's eyes are kind, and for once, Max isn't intimidated by it. "A lot of people say they actually feel like there's been a  _physical_ split, between who they were then, and who they were after. It's understandable that you would have been upset by your old writings, Max. It's  _more_ than understandable, actually."

Max opens her mouth to respond but soon shuts it, not knowing what to say.

"I know it sounds weird," Ms. Owens continues, "but you're not just mourning Chloe Price. You're mourning the girl who stood behind that stall and witnessed a life-changing event, because you stopped being that girl the second you saw what you saw." 

Ms. Owens leans forward and she's pushing the box of untouched Kleenex across the coffee table, and Max frowns at it for a moment because she doesn't know why. Then, she becomes aware of the sting in her eyes, and the fact the room is blurring into shapes and colours. Her face heats instantly, mortified. 

Her hands are trembling and she wants them to  _stop_ as she pulls out a tissue, rolls it up, and wipes it roughly across her burning eyes. 

Ms. Owens materializes again, and the fact she seems so unfazed by the fact Max is crying and making a _fool_ of herself—it's a small comfort.

"You're doing well moving forward after Chloe, but you haven't dealt with the loss of  _yourself_ ," Ms. Owens says. "It's going to be a process, but you need to do it; for her sake and yours."

Max's throat is swelling up like there's something squeezing the walls. 

"Hey," Ms. Owens calls to her softly, "It's okay to be afraid. It's scary as hell to have to find yourself all over again, to figure out some new identity after losing your last one. But you got this, Max.  _You got this._ So give yourself a break. Baby steps."

Max presses the tissue against her nose and huffs out a breath that's half a choking sound, stuck at the back of her throat. It was definitely extraordinarily  _uncool_ to be weeping like a baby in the middle of a school day, but at the same time, her heart is pounding with the weirdest push of relief. It feels like she's been wrapped in miles of thick rope and only now is someone beginning to unravel it and let her  _breathe._

She breathes. In, out, in, out.

Out in the hall, the bell rings, the shrillness of it in the previously lulled quiet making Max jump. She digs in her bag for the half-full bottle of water she carries around, taking a long sip past the golf ball welling in her oesophagus. Ms. Owens sits patiently, and she doesn't feel like she's being rushed out the door.

Max screws the cap back on. When she speaks, her voice is hoarse and quiet. "Baby steps?"

Ms. Owens nods. "Little by little. You'll get there."

"It all sounds so easy when you say it like that," Max breathes, rolling up the now thoroughly damp tissue and stuffing it up her sleeve. "But how do I actually  _f_ _ind_ myself?" It sounded like something Samuel would say, something Max would later spend longer than she'd thought possible trying to decode, only to no avail. 

"That's the fun part." Ms. Owens shuts her notebook, smiling. "Go out into the world and pretend you're seeing everything, and everyone in it, for the very first time. Let yourself feel something new, to form new opinions. Figure out which ones you like best."

Max keeps her head down in the hall, not out of shame but mostly out of paranoia that Principal Wells will spot her and think she's having some kind of emotional breakdown that will land her an extra hour in therapy every week and a concerned call to her parents that might possibly end in them driving down here to ' _l_ _ook after her'._ So, yeah, hard no. 

Thankfully, her eyes have dried to the point of only mild redness by the time she gets outside into the sunny afternoon and finds Trevor and Justin skating the rails. Trevor seems to get it in his head that she had a "late one" because of her puffy eyes, which is surprisingly amusing, so Max rolls with it, and ends up sitting on the steps with them, in no rush to get back to the noiseless, unnerving cage that is her dorm room.

She also tells them about therapy, and how she's sort of doing it. There's always been an unhurried, calming atmosphere of chill around Trevor and Justin, the kind of chill that lulls her into feeling like she could tell them whatever. Neither of them react in the shocked or awkward way she expects. They just nod, unperturbed, as casually as she just mentioned the weather.

"Cool, cool," Trevor hums, bringing his board to a stop at the bottom of the steps and leaning on it. "I did a couple hours with Ms. Owens too, right before Christmas."

"Really? You did?"

"Yeah, bro. I was pretty torn up over what happened to Chloe. You know. I was in a dark place for a while." He replies, shrugging. "She was a really cool girl. Can't believe what happened to her." He offers his fist then. "Way to go though, Maxster. I know it sucks sometimes, but you know, you're awesome for doing it."

Max bumps his fist with her own. "I feel like I should apologise, Trevor. We're supposed to be here for each other. I had no idea you had to go through that."

"Aw, don't sweat it. I'm fine now. Well, getting there."

Justin flops down next to her, nursing a particularly bad knee scratch after messing up a trick. "She got you on any meds?" he asks casually.

"No, but  _I_  did get an assignment," Max says, smiling lightly. "I have to find myself."

"Find yourself?" Trevor parrots. "Damn, like in a, 'Goddamn, this hot dog is so good that it made me want to re-evaluate my life' kind of way, or in a  _soul-searchy_ way?"

Max blinks. "Uh... the second one?"

"Shit. I just got a few dozen pep talks."  

Justin is squinting at thin air like 'finding myself' is an improbable calculation floating inches from his face. "How the  _fuck_ do you even do that?"

Max shrugs. "I have to see the world like I'm seeing it for the first time."

"Damn!" Justin leaps up, pulling his board with him. "That's kind of awesome!"

Trevor grasps Justin's shoulders and shakes him. "First impressions of this douchebag. No hesitating. Go."

"Oh! Um—" Max laughs. She tries to get into it, she really does. Imagines a blank canvas in her head, and this is all brand new. "He seems like a cool skater, with..." She smirks, "A tendency to tear up his knees doing skater tricks way above his skillset. But definitely not a douchebag."

"Be still my heart," Justin says dramatically. He jerks a thumb almost disinterestedly at Trevor. "His turn. Don't hold back, Max. He needs to hear the cold, hard truth."

"Fuck you, bro," Justin retorts, laughing.

"Yet another cool skater." Max's eyes drop up and down for a once-over. "And I'm getting a punk rock vibe."

"Hell yeah," Justin says proudly. "I'm not about that pop life."

"Nice to know New Max still likes us," Trevor remarks, and he actually sounds relieved. "We only got a little while left in this shithole. Sure would suck if we were on weird terms when we left."

"That's not going to happen," Max assures him. 

"I'm gonna make you swear to that on graduation day."

Max grins. "Fine by me."

 

* * *

 

 

Later that night, like  _way_ later, when the dorm is mostly asleep and even the owls outside have stopped hooting, Max is trying very hard to not fall asleep on a pile of Anthropology textbooks. She jerks upright, the sharp spine of her spiralled notepad digging harshly into her cheek as she feels her phone, buzzing somewhere underneath her elbow and playing its tune too-loud, too-close to her assaulted ears. 

She sits up and then back, blearily rubbing her eyes as she fumbles for it. She answers and puts it to her ear without checking who it is, wiping a sliver of drool off her chin in true Caulfield style. 

Her voice is husky and sleep-deprived. She prays it's not her mom. "Hello?" 

"Hey, hi, how are you?" A voice that is not familiar chirps at her. A girl's voice, far too alert for this time of night. 

"Uh, I'm... fine?" Her eyes are sore and feel full of grit when she rubs them. "Sorry, who is this?"

"Oh! Shit, sorry! I'm—" The girl stops. "Were you sleeping?"

"No--"

"I'm  _so_ sorry! God, I'm still not 'with it', you know? I seriously hate time zones. I have breakfast at, like, four am and I go to sleep at noon and—"

"E-Excuse me?" Max swivels around in her chair, and catches a less-than-glamorous glance of her notebook-marked face and heavy-lidded eyes in the mirror. "Are you sure you have the right number?"

"I—" The girl falls quiet. "Oh  _crap._  I don't know. Do I? Is this Max Caulfield?"

Max settles onto her bed, rubbing at her aching neck. "Yes. Who is this?"

"I'm— sorry, shit, this is creepy. I, um, I got your number from my brother? I hope that's okay. Is it okay? Because I'll hang up, you know, I just realised how weird this is. God."

"No, it's okay," Max says quickly, even though she _is_ pretty freaked out. But this girl sounds nice, if overly enthusiastic for eleven thirty at night. "What's your name?"

"I'm Kristine. Um, Kristine... Prescott?" She almost whispers it, like it's a filthy word. "Nate—you know, Nathan? He gave me your number a couple days ago and I've been putting off calling, and I guess I suddenly decided this would be a good time. Sorry. I'm kind of all over the place right now."

She sounds it, if Max is being honest. She sounds like she's being powered by a dozen cups of coffee, or hooked up to super-strength batteries. "Kristine," Max says then, slowly, "Right. Nathan's sister."

"Yes!"

There's a silence then, the awkward kind, and Max's mind races for something to say. "I've, uh, heard a lot about you." Mostly bad things, but she doesn't need to know that. 

"Me too! Seriously, Nathan's not a talker but when it comes to  _you_..." Max flushes at that, but Kristine is rambling on before she has time to process it. "Anyway, there's been a lot of stuff going on around here lately. And, obviously you know that, but, I guess I wanted to call and ask you if you'd be cool to meet up soon and, like, hang out?"

"O...kay," Max says slowly.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to ask you Nathan's dark secrets or whatever. Believe me, I  _know_ all there is to know about that." There's another awkward silence, and Kristine splutters a bit, sounding embarrassed. "Sorry, um, what was I saying? Oh, right. I just wanted to meet you, really. I just got home and it's all kind of a mess, but then Nathan suggested I should talk to you."

"Why me?"

"It's the, uh, trial." Kristine clears her throat. "I don't really know what's going on, I guess? Like, I  _know_ , but..."

"You want to hear my side of the story?"

"Right! Exactly! If it's not too much trouble," Kristine says merrily. "It's just that Nate tells me literally nothing, and I feel... well,  _weird_ asking our parents about what happened."

"It's fine, I get it," Max says, smiling suddenly. "I'd do the same thing if I were you. You were in the Peace Corps, right?"

"Still am! I'm on emergency leave. Hence why I'm all... jet-lagged and loud. Sorry."

"It's cool, don't worry." Max replies, brushing her fingertips over her cheek and feeling where the notepad has dug marks in. "When are you free?"

"Oh, Max. It's  _crazy_ around here, like even more so than usual, and I'm trying to hang with Nate as much as I can, so," Kristine pauses, thinking. "Is Saturday okay? Around lunchtime?"

Max nods, then stupidly remembers Kristine can't see her. "That's great," she says, "Where will I meet you?"

"Oh, um," Kristine laughs awkwardly, "Is it okay if it's just at my house? I get kind of nervous in town, you know. People tend to... stare. We were never anyone's favourite family, but it's just been ten times worse lately."

Max stills. She imagines the cold corridors and ornate furniture and hates how they make her feel afraid.

As if reading her mind, Kristine cuts in, "My parents won't be there," she says, trying to sound casual about it. Max realises she must be used to people getting anxious at the thought of coming to the Prescott estate. It makes her heart for her, a little. Kristine is nothing like she expected.

"I'll see you then," Max says.

"Fabulous! You're at Blackwell, right? Cool, I'll come by and pick you up about two o'clock."

"Thank you," Max says, surprised. "That's really nice of you."

"No worries! I guess I'll see you soon, Max. And sorry about calling you at," she stops, and there's a ruffling sound, "Oh my God! It's  _eleven thirty?_ I could've sworn it was like, ten."

"Jet lag?"

"Jet lag." Kristine sighs. "I won't keep you any longer. See you soon!"

"Bye." 

Max hangs up, her phone hot against her hand. She lets it drop against the blanket and then slides sideways down onto her pillow, her eyes fluttering shut, too exhausted to really register what just happened.

 

* * *

 

The cemetery actually looks pretty when it's flooded with sunlight, if such a place could ever be pretty. The grass seems just a touch greener with the recent spells of sunshine and the air is fresh and laced with the scent of the flowers, immaculately kept and organised around each headstone. There is a barely-there breeze, and it ruffles through Max's hair like a greeting as she climbs the familiar hill, her shoes crunching over the tidy gravel. Even the crows, perched atop every second headstone or two, don't freak her out as much as they usually do. 

It feels like time has passed. The last time she had walked through here, her head had felt so packed and heavy and  _dizzy_ , she could barely do anything at all, never mind be aware of the ticklish grass against her leg, or notice how beautiful gold lettering on a gravestone could be. She's never really thought about her own inevitable end, at least not comfortably. She thinks, now, she might like to be buried here, where you can just about pick up the smell of the seawater from the bay, and if you squint, see the bobbing boats on the horizon line, reeling in the latest catch.

Rachel's grave is the same, perpetually overrun with ribbons and neatly folded cards, stunning bouquets of summer flowers sitting in clear, moisture-speckled vases. The flowers here are very recent, still fresh and sweet, a bright pop of color. 

Max clasps her hands together as she comes to a stop in front of the headstone. She bows her head respectfully, never one for praying but still feeling like she should. A raven-feathered crow regards her curiously from underneath its wing.

"A whole year," she says quietly. 

Frank shakes his head, slow and deliberate, like he's holding in thoughts that threaten to spill out from his ears.

"It ain't right," he replies.

Max watches as he bends down to place the twine-wrapped bouquet of tulips towards the front of the grave, sandwiched now between a remembrance card from Principal Wells and a small plastic angel statue with fanned-out wings. 

He clears his throat, too loud. Max doesn't look over at him, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. Her stomach sinks when, in the corner of her eye, she sees his hand come up to push roughly at his eyes.

"Should we say something?" Max murmurs.

"I don't fuckin' know," Frank says, voice brittle. "She's not gonna talk back, is she?"

Max raises her eyes and speaks to the small photo of Rachel that someone has pinned to their flowers. It's the same photo from her missing posters. 

"Hi, Rachel," she manages to get out, because her throat is doing that tightening thing again, and the reality that it's been a  _year_ is beginning to fall cold like rain on her shoulders. "I just wanted to say, wherever you are, I hope you're having a blast. And we miss you very much."

Frank sniffs, his head hanging.

Max glances over at him. His eyes are rimmed with red, brimming with tears. "Do you want to...?"

Frank responds by putting a hand over his mouth, and he looks like he's in agony. Max rests her hand gently on his shoulder, giving it an awkward pat.

"Take all the time you need," she tells him.

He nods jerkily, and then crosses his arms over his chest, shuts his eyes and drops his head even further. Max wonders if he's praying. Frank's never seemed like the type, but God knows he's surprised her enough already.

She moves away, glancing back at Rachel's photo to smile at her and ponder whether or not Rachel returns it, from wherever she is. She leans down to pick a dandelion from the ground and then walks with it, twirling it between her fingers as she walks between graves, reading the names and the dates, some lives so long while others so abysmally short. 

The higher up the grassy hill that she goes, following the smooth gravel path, takes her into a sea of plots manned by stunning marble statues. A lot of the headstones up here are old, the stone black and covered with green-brown moss, the chipped lettering obscured. At the very top, right where the cemetery ends and the hedges rise up, sits one of the largest plots Max has ever seen. Each grave inside is tidily and diligently maintained, with fresh flowers and ornaments, dainty handwritten cards and glossy photographs in-laid like gems into the sleek marble. 

The statue is beautiful, and Max resists the urge to trace her hand over it, down the sloping sides. It's an enormous angel, and every feather of its large wings has been meticulously crafted. In the sunlight, it glimmers. The angel wears one long, endless robe that pools elegantly around its bare feet, and to its muscular chest it clutches a crucifix. Its eyes tilt up, fixed on the blue sky, a look of peace so expertly weaved into its immovable eyes.

Max steps closer, squinting, and spots a phrase etched across the Crucifix. 

_Vires acquirit eundo_

Some of the headstones are seriously old, yet still so well maintained unlike others of their kind in the other sections. There's even a different kind of stillness, here. Max can't put her finger on it, but she's unsure if she would call it peace. 

She reads the names as she walks from headstone to headstone, oldest to youngest, in that order.

 _Martin Lewis Prescott II... Elizabeth Rosemarie Prescott... Harry Aaron Prescott I... Claudia Eleanor Prescott..._ So many gravestones, so many Prescotts; it reads like a fancy history book. 

The most recent gravestone is coincidentally the most lavishly adorned. The headstone itself is the finest marble, with two carved angels adorning each side, their hands looking as though they're clutching the marble, cradling it, keeping it safe. 

Max, without really thinking about it, leans forward and adds her dandelion to the sea of flowers covering the stones like a patchwork quilt. 

She exhales. Slow. "Hey there, Dean."

The photograph of him, the one that sits just above his name, is one she's never seen before. He looks younger and healthier, with bronzed skin and a wide, infectious grin. He looks like Nathan, if Nathan were carefree. He looks like Harry, if Harry were older.

A crow squawks overhead and flutters down, landing on the shoulder of the angel on the left, fanning out its rich black wings.

"Where are you leading us?" Max asks, unable to tear her eyes from Dean's picture. "Are we almost there?"

There is—obviously—no answer, and after a moment's more, standing there in the silence, Max turns and picks her way back down the hill.

She's at Chloe's grave, sitting on the grass in front of it and staring at the dates, when Frank finds her. 

His eyes look irritated, like he's been rubbing at them too hard. "This place creeps me out," he complains. "Can we go? Please?"

Max stands, nodding. Frank leads, an unsteadiness to his gait as they walk back towards the high iron gates, the sun on their backs.

"Thanks for asking me to come with you."

Frank glances back at her, and then grunts gruffly. "Thanks for coming."

 

* * *

 

 

The Price family lawyer is a slightly twitchy, balding middle-aged guy, dressed head-to-toe in beige clothing. When Max shakes his hand as she sits down at the kitchen table, his grip is clammy and damp. She wipes her hand on her jeans discreetly, frowning. 

His briefcase is worn and beaten and looks as though it went a few rounds with a wild animal. He knows everything about the case, but seems unsure of how to speak to people, and is rather blunt in his questioning, asking Max all about Chloe's death right down to the gritty details while her mom and stepfather have to  _sit_  there. 

He's okay. He seems well-educated and knowledgeable about how to proceed, and Max does feel like she's truly being listened to as he jots down a few notes after everything she says, nodding for her to continue. 

But he's going up against the  _Prescotts_. With Carmin, they're sending out a bloodthirsty Rottweiler, whereas Mr. Fitzgerald— _Call Me Fitz—_ is essentially a trembling chihuahua. 

"How about we practice?" Fitz says quickly, shutting his briefcase so abruptly that Max jumps. 

"Practice?" 

"This is your first time in the witness box, right?" Fitz asks, like being in the witness box is somehow a regular thing for other people. "We should practice so that you know what to expect."

David nods vigorously. "You need to know your story back-to-goddamn-back. If you start stammerin' up there, Silva will be right on your ass."

"David," Joyce warns softly, noticing how Max's eyes widen. "Max isn't the one on trial here. It should be straightforward."

Fitz pulls out a coffee-stained handkerchief and starts dabbing his forehead with it. He looks green. 

Max looks from him to Joyce, raising her eyebrows. "Are you... okay?"

"I've gone up against Silva about a dozen times over the years," Fitz babbles back. "She, uh, she's a good lawyer."

"But you won against her before, right?" Max says. 

Silence.

"... _Right?_ "

Fitz clears his throat. "So, Max, you're going to get called to the stand. You go, you swear the Oath, and you get asked a couple of questions from each side."

Max nods firmly, even though her heart accelerates. 

"Let's take a stab at it," Fitz says. He tugs on his creased tie. He passes her a legal handbook. "Pretend it's the Bible. Raise your right hand."

Max does, and her stomach automatically cramps. David and Joyce are watching her carefully and the kitchen is suddenly too warm and confining. She's never experienced the consequences of lying under Oath before, but seeing as the universe once threw a tornado at her for a series of bad decisions, she's pretty sure the consequences aren't good.

She gulps, and wonders if anyone notices.

Fitz twitches. "Repeat after me. I swear by Almighty God that the evidence I shall give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."

It feels like a cheesy law movie, but it's real, oh God it's  _real._

Max says the words back, noticing how heavy they feel on her tongue. Her hand flops back onto her lap, knees bouncing with nerves, and then Fitz leans forward. He smiles at her, but it looks more like he's holding in flatulence.

"Where do you go to school?" Fitz asks. 

"Blackwell Academy."

"What was your relationship to Chloe Price?"

Max blinks, caught off guard. 

"Max?"

"Oh, sorry." She flushes. "She was my best friend. Since we were little kids."

"What is your relationship to Nathan Prescott?"

_Shit._

"I—" She represses a grimace at the way her voice cracks. "Um, back then or... now?"

Joyce laughs, startling her. "Why? Has it changed?"

"No!" She says quickly. Way too quickly,  _geez._

"What is your relationship to Nathan Prescott, in uh, general?" Fitz clarifies.

"Oh, um," Max swallows. "I don't know him that well."

She's under Oath. Even though she swore to some handbook and not the Bible, it still feels like she's probably going to Hell. Max can feel sweat beginning to form under her knees, where her hands are gripping hard. 

"Where were you when Nathan entered the bathroom?"

"I was behind one of the stalls. I— there was this butterfly, and I… I took a picture of it. He came in and I hid. He didn't see me."

"Can you describe Nathan's behaviour?"

Max looks down. "He was really upset. He was, um, talking to himself?" It hurts to say the words. It yanks at something in the centre of her chest, like pulling on bow strings. Why does it feel like she's betraying him? "He was very agitated." 

Fitz squints like he's trying to remember what to say. Max tries to imagine one of those times he lost to Carmin, and it makes her chest ache.

"Did Nathan Prescott shoot Chloe Price?"

David goes rigid. Max doesn't even look at Joyce.

Her throat is tight.

"It's— I, um—" 

"Try not to hesitate," Fitz interrupts.

Max exhales. "Yes. He killed her."

There's a couple more questions after that, and Fitz scribbles down some of her answers and doesn't look like he's even listening to some of the others. When he finally packs up his briefcase, muttering something about traffic, Joyce leans over and squeezes her shoulder.

"You did great, Max," she tells her kindly. "It might be the Prescotts, but I know we're going to get the justice Chloe deserves. That boy is going away for a long, long time."

Joyce drives her back to Blackwell after a cup of cocoa, saying the same reassuring, kind things, and it hurts. Max stays quiet. It feels like one of the longest car rides of her life.

 

* * *

 

 

"He said that?" Victoria's eyes widen. "For real? He said that?"

"Every word." Max leans against the wall by Victoria's door, feeling sleepy after her shower and wanting nothing more than to crawl into bed and end this day. But she had spotted Victoria texting in the hall, in a rare moment when she isn't being circled by Taylor and Courtney.

And Max has some things to get off her chest.

"Shit." Victoria shakes her head at something only she can see. 

"He said that Jefferson killed Rachel," Max repeats. "He said he wasn't even in the Dark Room when she was drugged."

Max searches Victoria's face for the relief she had expected. 

It's not there.

Instead, Victoria actually looks...  _disappointed?_

"What's wrong?" Max frowns. "This is good news."

Victoria flicks her eyes to her. Hesitates. "Max, he fucking lied to you."

The words hang in the air, tangible. They almost flash. 

Max's eyebrows furrow. She can't find her voice, but eventually manages a murmured, "No...?"

"Uh,  _yes._ " Victoria retorts. "I mean, he  _has_ to be lying. He was so  _messed up_ after Rachel went missing. It looks like, if it was his  _job_ or whatever to drug the girls, he obviously fucked up."

"He was probably messed up because somebody  _died_ , whether he had something to do with or not," Max argues.

She was in the Dark Room with Jefferson, in the other timeline. _He_ killed Rachel. It was obvious, in his stuttering, his slipped-up words, his manipulation. The glaring evidence that showed Nathan was _used_.

Max knows the truth, and she can't say a word without sounding nuts.  

Victoria crosses her arms, indignant. "Listen, I know you two are  _friends_ or whatever now, but as bitchy as it sounds, I've known him longer. AKA, I  _know_  him. _"_

"What do you mean?"

"I mean he lies. To protect himself, to protect, well, you." Victoria shrugs. "Think about it, Caulfield. If you killed somebody, and you were all by yourself in some hospital, and you  _knew_ the odds were stacked fucking against you..." Victoria pauses, huffs out a sigh. "Who the hell would willingly admit they killed someone?"

"I... I don't understand."

"He's trying to not  _scare you off_ , dummy," Victoria scowls at her, like this is obvious or something. "Duh."

"You - You really think Nathan killed Rachel?"

"Accidentally," Victoria counters. Her voice has gone tight. Like she's trying her hardest to sound normal. "Look, it's not like he doesn't know. Trust me, he knows. But he doesn't want to face up to it. He's always blamed other people, always exaggerated the story and made himself out to be the victim. Max, I know he's your friend and I know you, like, care about him. So do I. But," Victoria shakes her head again. Sad and slow. "He's not the kind of person you should give the benefit of the doubt. He doesn't want you to hate him, and he thinks by lying he's making it easy on you."

"The trial," Max says, a little shakily. "He wants me to say he didn't kill Rachel."

"I don't know if he did or not, okay? All I know is that he's never been that honest. You should be careful." Victoria turns then, but before she goes in, she stops with her fingers curved around the handle and looks back at Max. "The trial," she starts. "You know you're gonna have to pick a side, right? Like, soon?"

Max leaned her head against the wall, unable to stop her eyes from squeezing shut. 

"I know."

"You better hope you pick the right one," Victoria says, and then she's gone, shutting her door and leaving Max alone.

 

* * *

 

 

Trying to find Carmin is surprisingly difficult. Max has seen her everywhere in the past few days - wandering around campus, around town, just standing by Frank's trailer like he's the type to come out and talk to her for the fun of it. But when she wants to find her, when she needs to, it's kind of impossible.

She's at the lighthouse, sitting cross-legged on the bench, when she eventually decides to just Google  _Carmin Silva, Arcadia_ and hope she gets a number.

She does. 

She gets a website, actually. It turns out that Carmin has her own law firm, Silva & Christopher, and it's right on the edge of Arcadia Bay, near enough to the Prescott Estate. The building is modern and sleek and looks like it belongs in a big city, not a tiny Oregon town in the literal middle of nowhere.

Crows circle overhead as she dials the number, the soft, setting sunlight warm on her face.

After a few rings, a woman answers.

"Silva and Christopher. How may I help you today?"

"Uh, hi. I was hoping to speak to Carmin?"

"Name?" The woman asks flatly.

"Max Caulfield."

"Hold please." 

She's subjected to two full minutes of irritating on-hold piano music, and she thinks about hanging up about a dozen times. She's actually about to go through with it, her thumb right over the button, when the music cuts off. 

"Max," Carmin's voice comes over the line, warm and equally surprised. "I wasn't expecting you to call, sorry for the wait."

"Oh, it's okay."

"Is everything alright?"

Max hesitates, her button still over the END CALL button.

A heavy silence.

"Max?"

_This is it._

"I want to help you," Max blurts.

"Pardon?"

"The - The trial. I want to help you. I want to help Nathan."

The stretch of silence is so prolonged that Max wonders whether she's been put on hold again.

"Okay?" Carmin sounds flabbergasted. "Are - if you don't mind me asking, why? What brought all of this on? I thought Chloe was your friend."

 _She was_ , Max thinks, frustrated.  _She always will be_.

"I'll explain in person," Max replies, "But I want something in exchange."

"In exchange? Like what?"

Max swallows. Opens her mouth a few times before she can get anything out. "I know things about Sean Prescott. I want him put in prison."

A pregnant pause. Max tries to regulate her breathing.

"Come to my office," Carmin says eventually, hushed, like there's some way he could be listening. "We'll be able to talk about this in more detail there."

"Okay, I'm on my way." 

"Great," Carmin actually sounds sort of rattled. It curls a knot in Max's stomach. "See you soon."

Max punches the button at last. She sits there for a moment longer, unable to really move or breathe. 

Five or ten minutes have passed by the time she dials Warren's number.

He doesn't pick up the first time, and she waits again before she tries the second time.

"Hey," Max says. "Sorry, this is pretty last minute, but would you be able to pick me up?" 

"Max, hey," Warren sounds off. Shaken. 

Max sits up straighter. Something cold pools in her chest. "What's wrong? You sound funny."

"Y-Yeah, sorry.  _Fuck._ " Warren pants, and in the background, she can hear traffic going past.

"Where are you?"

"On the side of the road."

"What happened?"

Warren exhales. His voice comes back weak. "I hit a deer."

"What? Seriously? When?"

"Just now."

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. The, uh, deer not so much." He sighs mournfully. "I swear, it just came out of  _nowhere._ One minute I was driving along, the road is totally clear, and the next thing it's suddenly in the middle of the road? Just staring at me!"

Max swallows hard. "Did you call anyone?"

"The tow truck. My car is effed up," Warren whimpers, devastated. "And then they called Wells. He's coming to pick me up."

"Okay, well, go back to your dorm and take it easy. I'll come by later tonight."

"Sure, okay. See you then."

Max stares at her phone after she hangs up.

She lifts her head, tilting it up, up, and up. It's the strangest thing, but she can't help but feel like if the lighthouse had a face, it'd be  _glaring_ at her right about now.

She has the feeling, coiled up tight in her gut; the same feeling as before, when everything started to go... wrong.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WE GOT OURSELVES A [ SWEET COVER!!!](http://caulfiellds.tumblr.com/post/144860482916/im-999-sure-ive-read-that-its-your-birthday). I'm in love with it!!
> 
> This is an extra-long chapter that I had to split into two because I was so utterly wiped, but good news is that the next chapter has a little somethin'. A little Caulscott somethin'. ;) HAPPY SUMMER FRIENDS
> 
> As always, major thanks to Kittiara - it's no easy feat to wade through 12k+ of my rambling. And thank you guys for your outstanding support and kind comments!!! <3 You inspire me to do my best!

 

Silva & Christopher is an enormous, metallic-looking building that sticks out like a sore thumb on an otherwise mundane street. It looms over the red-check, grimy and gross-looking pizza parlour on its left, and the tiny hole in the wall bookshop on its right. Even when she lived in Arcadia permanently, Max had never come to this part of town. She never really had any reason to. She looks around and can't even find a photo op. Her surroundings are too sparse, and if she's being honest, kind of bleak.

She holds her breath going through the revolving doors, arms held awkwardly around herself as she steps into a wide, all-marble lobby with a real actual gloved doorman and a coffee cart bustling with activity. Everyone in here is in suits, and at least thirty to forty decades older than her. Naturally, all eyes swivel to stare at her when she comes in.

Max breathes out nervous heat from where it has clustered tight in her chest, and tries to look confident as she moves towards the front desk, shoes squeaking against the floor. The guy sitting behind the desk is flipping through one of those auto racing magazines. He's remarkably spotty for his age, and looks truly bored to death.

"Um," Max tries to lean into his peripheral vision. "Excuse me?"

"What?"

 _Wowser_ , Max thinks, _A+ customer service._

She considers giving her name, and then quickly decides against it. "Carmin— Mrs. Silva? She said—"

The clerk lifts his gaze briefly, and Max is almost relieved at the lack of interest reflected there. She wants to not be remembered. For all she knows, Sean Prescott or one of his goons could be stalking around here right now. The thought itches under her skin.

"Carmin is on the top floor," he mutters gruffly. "Go down the hall and take the elevator."

"Great. Thank you."

He ignores her, turning the page of his magazine, revealing a scantily-clad woman advertising what looks to be motor oil or something. Max suppresses a grimace and brushes past the desk, echoing loud, hurried footsteps across the ground as she goes.

The hallway is long, lined by exquisite paintings of fruit bowls and dramatic, panoramic views of the bay. The elevator lies at the end, right beside a large photograph framed high on the wall of Carmin, and about four others who must be the partners. They all look about as exciting as a heart attack, save for Carmin, who's red, stylish pantsuit is a pop of color amongst a sea of dull brown and grey.

The elevator is playing the instrumental version of a past 1980s hit. Max punches the highest number on the keypad, number 8, and holds onto the bar as the elevator groans into an upward glide. That sensation of the floor giving out will never not tease her stomach to nauseousness.

While she waits, she tries to think about what to say. She needs to be careful, more careful now than she has been with any of her previous encounters with Carmin. She needs to be confident, assured, or else she won't be taken seriously. But that's pretty impossible when even Max isn't really sure of her next move. She knows what she wants to happen—not for Nathan to be treated as a monster in the trial, for one thing—and for his father to get the consequences he deserves. She has help from Victoria and Kate, and now the promise of Nathan's assistance, too. If this works, Carmin could be the final piece of the puzzle.

The doors ping open to reveal a cream and brown wood panelled foyer, with yet another front desk, and yet another bored-looking receptionist. Wide glass windows span out behind her, ceiling-to-floor, looking right out over the bay. Max can see trawler boats on the line of the dark blue sea, and some smaller boats drifting back to shore. If she worked somewhere with a view like that, she'd be too distracted to get anything done.

Rudeness, or passing disinterest, must be a job requirement here because when Max heads over to the receptionist, she doesn't even glance up. Her fingers are typing with lightning speed against a fancy computer key board, her eyes a little sunken with tiredness as she watches the screen.

"Yes?" she asks.

"Hi," Max gives her a polite smile that is completely ignored. "I called Carmin earlier. She said to come to her office."

The woman nods once. "Go left and down the hall. Her door isn't hard to miss."

"Thank you." She takes off again, strangely breathless.

There are a lot of offices on this floor, and when Max looks in through the glass-walls and doors she can see official-looking meetings taking place, people pacing around their offices on the phone, or sitting hunched over desks with their heads buried in an avalanche of manila folders and paperwork. There are names scratched onto the glass, and Max checks each one until she's at the very end of the corridor, and finally finds it. Carmin's office, which like all the others, is made of shining metal and gleaming glass.

The door is ajar, but Max knocks anyway.

Carmin is sat behind her desk, which is uniquely immaculate. Her pens are set out so perfectly side-by-side that Max honestly thinks she might measure them every morning. Her view looks out over the bay, getting in the beautiful view of the cliffs too, a lush landscape of dark ocean, dusty beige sand and rocky green and brown. There are a bunch of framed certificates and photographs hanging on the walls, as well as an assortment of leafy potted plants and a few chunky couches. The coffee table holds a pitcher of water and a couple glasses.

Carmin is dressed in a purple pantsuit that makes her dark features all the more striking. When she glances up and sees Max standing there, she smiles, all lilac-lipstick.

"Max, hello." She gestures to the seat in front of her and Max goes to it. "Find the place okay?"

Max nods, still looking around. "Your office is beautiful."

"Thank you, that's kind of you to say. Maybe you'll have your own like it some day."

"Eh, I don't know. I don't think I'm an office-job kind of person."

"I used to be like that," Carmin returns. " _Before_ I got this one. Water?"

"Oh, yes please."

Carmin glides over to the pitcher and pours her a glass of water. It's a little warm when Max drinks it, as a result of sitting where the sun is streaking through.

When Carmin has sat back down, she laces her hands together and is suddenly all-business. Her eyes go stern, her spine sits up straight, and she fixes a kind of blazing gaze on Max that makes it not at all hard for her to believe that this woman is a lawyer, and an apparently awesome one at that.

"So," Carmin says. "You said some... _interesting_ things on the phone."

"I did." Max colors slightly. "Sorry, I must have sounded a little crazy."

"Maybe a little determined," Carmin replies. "But, now you're here. You can tell me exactly what it is you want from me."

"It's kind of hard to explain," Max admits.

"I'm a good listener. Start with the basics, Max. At a basic level, what do you want?"

Max says, "Your help."

"I see." Carmin doesn't really look that interested, which Max is taken aback by. "The trial," she goes on. "Is a little over three weeks away. Cutting it pretty close coming to me, aren't you?"

"But you'll help?" Max says fiercely, leaning forward. "You _will_ help me?"

"That depends." There is truly something Prescott about her then, coming in waves of authority and power from her eyes. Their influence has evidently rubbed off. "You said on the phone that this is about Sean Prescott and his family. About Nathan."

Max nods slowly.

"I've been over the case reports for this more times than I can count," says Carmin. "You can imagine my surprise when you implied that you and Nathan are friends."

"We are," Max answers. "That's why I want to help him."

"You have— _had_ —a much closer connection to Chloe Price," Carmin says. "In statements by her family and even you, you confirmed this. On the contrary, it was widely observed that you had little to do with Nathan Prescott at the time of the murder."

"That's true," Max says hurriedly. "That's all true. But it's _different_ now. Nathan is innocent in all of this."

"Innocent?" Carmin's eyebrows arch almost to her hairline. "He shot a girl in broad daylight. I wouldn't say he's innocent."

"No, but," Max breaks off, huffing out a frustrated sigh. "It's - look, it's complicated. There's way more to it."

"Tell me, then."

So, Max does.

The words pour out like thick wine, spilling onto the floor and spreading like stains along the carpet. They hang there, buzzing in the air, as Max hops from one subject to the next. Her heart pounds as she talks. She doesn't look at Carmin, _can't_ bring herself to look at Carmin, because she knows that if she does, she'll end up freezing mid-sentence or forgetting her train of thought.

She talks about the Dark Room, about the construction papers she found, about Dean's connection to Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Jefferson's deliberate, calculated manipulation of Nathan. She tells her about what Nathan said, what he said he saw, heard and learned. She talks about Rachel, about Nathan's breakdown, about how he was pushed to it, how he never wanted to hurt anyone, how he wants to help.

When she finally finishes, throat raw, she's out of breath and her face is scarlet. In all that time, Carmin has remained sitting up straight, hands on top of each other on her desk, her face flat, saying nothing.

The silence is a long one, filled with the remnants of Max's babbling.

Carmin clears her throat.

"Well," she says slowly. "That's... certainly something."

Max takes a long drink of her water, eyes shutting as it pools warm at the bottom of her still-swirling stomach.

"There are connections," she says then, setting the glass down with more noise than she anticipated. "Between Dean Prescott and the Dark Room, between Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Prescott."

"But a  _ring?_ " Carmin eyes her curiously, and Max knows she's being read. "Nathan told you about the existence of a ring?"

"Yes." Max is beginning to feel an overwhelming wash of relief. Carmin doesn't look shocked or doubtful. This might work. She feels it working. "He can tell you himself. He's willing to testify about his father. You need to make sure that the trial listens to him."

"And Rachel Amber?" Carmin adds. "Nathan will testify that Mr. Jefferson was her killer?"

Max nods eagerly.

Carmin is quiet for a long moment, one that feels endless, one that gnaws at Max's nerve-endings like rats on electrical wires.

"Well?" Max's teeth catch hold of her lip. "So, that's it? You'll help us?"

Carmin sits forward. Her eyes are serious.

"With what proof?"

Max blinks. Frowns. "What?"

"I said, with what _proof?_ " Carmin throws up her hands. "Where's your proof? Your evidence? Tangible evidence to back up everything you're telling me."

"I..." Max's mouth runs dry. "I told you, I have a copy of the construction papers for the bunker. And Frank's account book, it shows Dean--"

"But that's it?"

"Well, there's Nathan. He knows what he saw—"

"The judge, jury and, in fact, the whole state, is not going to take the baseless word of a boy who is pleading not guilty by mental illness," Carmin cuts her off. "They will not take the word of a couple of students, either, and definitely not the word of Frank Bowers. Not over the Prescotts."

"But—"

"And involving the deceased son of one of the most powerful families in the country is _dangerous_ for your defence, especially when you have no proof."

Max deflates, melting like candle wax against the chair.

"As well as that," Carmin pauses, just for a moment. "I wouldn't take the word of Nathan Prescott so freely, either."

Max frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I've talked to him a lot over the past few weeks, and I'll be working with him practically every day from now until the trial," Carmin explains. "My job is to read people, Max, and despite what he thinks, Nathan is a pretty open book."

"I... don't understand."

"He's hiding something." The words settle in the air with thunderous finality. "I don't know what, but he is. He knows more than he's telling us. He knows more about this Rachel Amber situation than he's letting on."

"Why would he hide something like that?" Max argues.

"I have absolutely no idea. If it's something that would help his defense, I don't know why he hesitates to tell me. On the other hand..." She swallows. "I suspect he knows something, then, that puts him in hot water."

Max falls quiet. The way Carmin is looking at her, she feels the unspoken question in her bones.

"You want me to find out what it is, don't you?"

Carmin nods firmly. "In exchange, I'll help you. But I need to know everything that my client could possibly know beforehand."

Max opens her mouth, but Carmin raises her hand.

"I have one more condition."

Max's lips shut. She waits, bracing herself.

"You need to find me proof. Of _everything_ you've said," Carmin tells her. "I can help to some extent, if you think you need access to something you absolutely believe will help. But I can only do it once. I help you too much on this, and Sean will most certainly find out."

"So, it's up to me," Max says softly. "How much proof?"

"As much as you can get. I mean it, Max. This is the real world. Trials don't last on just words. I can't do shit with words." She extends her hand. "Get Nathan to tell you the truth, the absolute truth, and find me some hard evidence. You do that, I'll help you."

After a brief hesitation, Max takes her hand and shakes.

She's pretty sure she imagines it, but something almost changes in the air. Something fizzes and pops behind her ears, or groans under the floor. It sends a prickling shiver shooting down her spine.

Probably just an open window somewhere, right?

Max stands up to leave, walking to the door on stiff legs, sweat on the back of her neck. In the doorway, Carmin calls out to her, and she turns.

"You have three weeks," Carmin reminds her. "It's not going to be easy. But to start you off in the right direction..." Max thinks that she smiles. Just barely, at the corner of her mouth. "Talk to Office Berry. He has ties to the Prescott family. See what you can shake out of him. And be discreet."

Max nods.

It should feel like a victory, it should feel like hope.

But she has a bad feeling in her stomach, a foreboding kind of sickness. 

"And Max?"

She locks eyes with Carmin, holding her breath as her stomach continues its lurching somersaults.

"Don't fuck this up," Carmin declares. "You can't risk this going wrong." 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Kristine is thirty minutes late picking her up. Max sits on the water fountain outside of the main building with a knot of anxious tension, staring out at the soft, washy sunlit road, wondering whether the other girl is even going to show up.

It's a Saturday, so campus is all but dead, bathed in eerie quiet. Max can't shake the feeling she's being watched, which is ridiculous, and she knows it's probably only because she's been sitting here alone for so long. Even so, the hair on the back of her neck is raised, her skin awash with goosebumps. She hugs her knees against her chest and her head is on a constant loop of looking around her every few seconds, but she really is alone. There is just a skittering of litter along the ground, and a horde of crows pecking their sharp beaks against forgotten crumbs.

The air is utterly reticent, so much so, that when Nathan's older sister finally screeches—literally screeches—to a halt in a humongous SUV with tinted-out windows, Max nearly leaps several feet in the air. The abrupt stop of the car sends a garbage can flying down the sidewalk, clattering loudly, and for a second all Max can do is stare. The passenger window slides electrically down, and there's Kristine, leaning across in giant sunglasses, grinning at her enthusiastically.

"Max! Hop in!"

Max stands hurriedly, falling over herself to get to the car before a cop comes and arrests Kristine for hit-and-run of a garbage can. That's honestly something the Arcadia Police Department would do. She climbs into the passenger side, locking in her seat belt firmly. The car is scented with heady perfume, and the stereo is playing a loud pop song that Max recognises, only because Victoria had it on a loop last night and Max could hear her through the wall. The car is also kind of a diabolical mess, with dozens upon dozens of CDs out of their cases and littering the floor underneath her feet. Fast-food wrappers cover the entire dashboard, like some kind of deliberate decoration. A large Starbucks styrofoam cup has been jammed into the too-small cup holder, and much of it is splashed along the upholstery.

Kristine turns to her, her face is saturated in apology.

"I suck," she declares.

"What?"

"I totally lost track of time. I'm _so_ sorry." She presses her foot firmly down on the accelerator pedal, and Max's stomach lurches as the car jumps jerkily forward. "Were you waiting long? I hope you weren't. Seriously, I am really sorry."

"It's okay, no worries," Max says, hoping the other girl doesn't hear the poorly-veiled fear in her voice. She keeps an iron grip around her seatbelt. "It's um, really nice to meet you."

She's tall, much taller than Max expected, and her hair isn't dark like it had been in the pictures. It's golden-blonde now, chopped into a stylish, shoulder-length bob and threaded with copper highlights, which seem to have been brought out naturally by the sun rather than by a bottle. Her skin is tanned, brown as a nut, with sunburnt smudges around her nose. Max studies her, taking in her bohemian print dress, and instantly feels about twenty degrees less cool. Kristine is clearly travelled, cultured and truly Prescott in every way imaginable, but definitely without the ice. Much to her surprise, Max doesn't feel intimidated.

"You too!" Kristine taps manicured fingers against the steering wheel, along with the thumping beat of the music. "Oh my God, I literally feel like I already know you."

"You do?"

"Well sure. Nathan's told me your entire life story, practically." Kristine turns the wheel suddenly, taking a corner like a drag racer while Max clings on for dear life. "Lemme see: you're eighteen, you used to live in Seattle, you go to Blackwell and you're apparently quite the gifted photographer. That about cover it?"

"I—"

"He also said you were super pretty, which I can now officially confirm." Kristine beams at her, her teeth blindingly white and neat. She honestly looks like something out of a Los Angeles fashion catalogue.

Max's stomach flips. "Oh, um, thank you...?"

They fall into a settled silence while Max mulls over that particular blush-inducing info. She doesn't notice that her nails have basically bitten into the leather seats, or that sweat has pooled underneath her knees, until Kristine makes a jagged turn into the Prescott Estate and the car gradually slows down. Fast-food wrappers flutter off the dash and into her lap. Kristine parks at an angle, right across two parking spaces. Max, her stomach doing somersaults, wonders how Kristine survived life so far. Even Warren is a better driver, and he recently hit an actual deer.

"Here we be," Kristine skips with a merry bounce, her keys jangling in her right hand. "Casa de My Parents."

Max is relieved to see no other cars in the driveway, save for a gardening firm's lemon-yellow van. She can hear the distant whir of a leaf blower, but other than that, the mighty house stands still and quiet. She follows Kristine through the front door, hit once again by the cold air, the museum-ish feel.

Their footsteps echo against the lavish marble floor as Kristine leads her into a kitchen. It's, unsurprisingly, enormous, a perfect blend between gaudy and minimalist. As Kristine heads behind the metallic-topped countertops, Max pulls out a chair at the long, rectangular table. It's already set, with fancy mats, gleaming cutlery and glasses. It's only set for three. Max looks around and tries to imagine Nathan in here, on a summer morning. She tries to picture him slouched at the breakfast bar, dressed in those thick sweatpants that all boys seem to sleep in, eating cereal or drinking orange juice. The image is strange; a puzzle piece that doesn't fit.

She's weirded out the most by their fridge, of all things. It's huge, silver, and completely bare. There are no magnets, no hastily-scribbled post-it notes, no photographs. Max wonders why it unsettles her so much.

"Tea? Coffee?" Kristine moves like she's on rollerskates, whirling around the place as she pulls out two mugs.

"Tea, please."

Kristine busies herself at one of the most intense instant drink machines Max has ever seen. It looks like it could, and would, gladly swallow whole Joyce's humble, infinitely smaller contraption at the Two Whales. There's about a hundred buttons and knobs, and looks more like it belongs on a spaceship than in somebody's kitchen. Max feels a swell of anxiety just looking at it.

Kristine turns on a stereo that is literally-and-actually built into the oven, and hums along to the same station as before.

"Is Harry here?" Max asks.

"Nope. He's sort of non-existent on Saturdays? He's got piano at eleven, art class at twelve, violin at one, speech and debate from two to three—"

"He does speech and debate?" Max interrupts. "Wait, he does _art_ classes? Doesn't he do art at boarding school?"

"Gotta do overtime with our parents." Kristine dumps a scooping of coffee into her mug with more force than is necessary. "God forbid Harry's actually allowed to be, like, a child."

Sensing it's a touchy subject, Max decides to change it. "This is kind of rude," she starts, laughing a little, "but Nathan's not actually told me that much about you."

Kristine sits down across from her, passing her a steaming mug of tea. She looks unfazed. "Like he would. Are you kidding?"

Max inhales the smell, her mouth watering. "Thank you."

"Oh my God, no worries."

"How long have you been back from Brazil?" Max asks. She takes her first sip. The tea is insanely delicious, and Max suddenly wants to build an altar to the spaceship beverage machine and worship it forever.

"Officially a week, as of today."

Kristine tells her about sun-baked days spent teaching English in a colorful classroom, and days spent knee-deep in moist, earthy soil, helping small-scale farmers plant fresh crops. She talks about it all animatedly, her eyes glittering with her passion for it, and it only takes a few minutes for Max to realise she really likes Kristine Prescott. She'd had this nightmare that she'd be some carbon copy of either parent, all hard edges, cold stare and invasive questions, but she's the total opposite. She is warm and bubbly, kind of ditzy, but endearingly so. Max wonders how she's so well-wounded, having the parents that she does.

Kristine ends up answering that question for her. "To be honest, I only joined up to get away from good ol' Mom and Dad." Her grip tightens, just for a second, around her mug. "Seriously, being back here, all it's done is remind me why I left in the first place."

Max nods in understanding. "So you don't get along?"

" _Understatement_."

Max isn't surprised. Not even a little. She'd be more shocked if someone actually admitted to getting along with Sean and Scarlett. Even their own lawyer, who they pay bank-loads of dollars to, isn't a fan.

"It used to be different, you know," Kristine says, and her voice comes out kind of harsh, like she's angry that it did change. "My grandfather, Harry Senior? He was actually a saint."

Max feels the familiar stirring of a headache, when she tries to bring back a memory that crosses over two realities. It aches, but the images come. The barn, the documents, the old, creased photograph of a lithe, gentle-faced man with the same slope of mouth as Nathan, the same rusty hair as Harry and Kristine. She remembers reading about him with Chloe, something about donations.

Max grimaces, coming out of the pain of remembering. "He built the library, right?"

"You betcha." Kristine's answering smile is proud. "He also built the hospital, and that children's playground down by the beach. And Arcadia High School wouldn't even have an arts department, had he not given them funding and built them an auditorium." She huffs out a sigh. "He was generous. He helped because he _wanted_ to. He gave the people around him money not so he could yank it all back with massive interest after a couple of days, but because they were struggling, and he wanted to help."

"So what happened?"

"Grandfather got sick, and my father took over." Kristine's smile crumples. "He's not generous. He doesn't want to help people. Grandfather taught him the importance of legacy, but my dad decided he wanted his version of our legacy to be different."

"That's... that's awful."

"You grew up here, right? So of course you know." Kristine shrugs, but Max sees the hurt behind her eyes, blazing like an unkempt fire. "Hating our family is Arcadia's favourite local pastime," she adds dryly. " _Really_ brings everybody together, it's kind of inspiring, actually."

Max swallows. "And now Nathan. I'm sorry. I can't imagine what you must be going through."

"Don't apologise, Max. Like it's your fault."

And oh, the guilt, it crashes over her in waves.

"I don't know that much," Kristine admits, tracing the condensation-soaked rim of her mug with one finger. Her eyes flick up to Max. "You were there?"

Max nods.

"What happened?"

Max tells her. Every word. She's become so used to telling the story, going back to that place in her mind, that she's almost become used to it. Not used to the shock of pain or the desolation that spears her hard in the chest each time, but used to saying the words. There's a difference.

She realises, towards the end, that Kristine has never heard her say the words before, and Max stops.

Kristine's posture melts like butter, and she sinks low towards the polished table. Her fingers come up to pinch the bridge of her nose, and Max can almost taste the anguish.

"Jesus Christ, little brother," Kristine moans. "What did you _do?_ "

"I really am sorry."

" _You're_ sorry? Max, what you must have _seen_. That's going to stay with you for the rest of your life," Kristine shakes her head hard. "I'm sorry. This is all so fucked up."

Kristine doesn't cry. Max wonders why she feels surprised—expectant of tears. Kristine's eyes glaze over like steel and she seems to go hard all over, holding herself too straight in her seat, her eyebrows furrowed. Max thinks she looks like her mother, then.

"You said," Max starts slowly, "that you've been to see him?"

"Every day," Kristine sighs.

Max tries a smile. "I bet he's happy to have you around."

"Um, no." Kristine stands and grabs their now-empty mugs. "More tea?"

"Sure." Max's stomach is doing pole-vaults. The thought of something soothing to chill her out has her head nodding. "Thank you."

There's a stiffness in Kristine's frame as she turns her back, returning to the cabinets, and Max gets the feeling that she should give her some space, a few moments to adjust. She gets to her feet, her legs stiff, and hesitates awkwardly at the kitchen door.

"Could I use the bathroom?"

Kristine doesn't turn around. "Of course. Go down the hallway on the left, it's the last door on the right.

Max steps out into the foyer and feels incredibly small. She shivers, more from the openness of the large space than the chilly air. It looks the same as last time, elaborate and spotless. Max's footsteps echo loudly along the floor as she walks, arms hugged around her frame out of fear of breaking anything, or even leaving a fingerprint.

The hallway she moves slowly down is lined by five or six doors, every single one shut firmly. It's dark down here, dismal and silent, and if she's honest, it's also pretty scary. It feels like, at any moment, one of the doors will spring open and something monstrous will lunge viciously towards her. She moves faster, the back of her neck beginning to sweat, all the way down the hall towards the last couple of doors.

A small flickering flame catches her attention, and she stops, turning around to face a high-legged wooden table. A single candle, dark, bottle-green, flutters there, flanked by a vase of pale-yellow lilies and a gleaming silver picture frame. Max's heart sinks at the photograph of Dean, the very same one as on his grave. The dimness of the candle flickers across his smiling face, and for a moment, it almost looks like a wink.

Max lingers there for a moment, before her stomach churns with the panic Kristine might come to look for her and find her snooping. She hurries into the bathroom, the luxuriousness of which is borderline ridiculous, washing her hands with fruity, aromatic pink soap. On the way back, she places her hand lightly on the table, maybe out of respect, or acknowledgement, or apology. She's not sure. Probably a mixture of all of them.

The drinks are on the table when she returns, as well as a plate of chocolate chip cookies.

It's like someone flipped an invisible switch on the back of Kristine's neck, as the girl is suddenly all smiles again, her face bright and open. "Cookies!" She gestures enthusiastically at the plate. "I've eaten, like, six already. Please come and save me from myself."

Max smiles and sits, taking one as her stomach gives an appreciative rumble.

"Find the bathroom okay?"

"Yeah, thank you." Max hesitates then. She's supposed to be detective-ing. "I noticed the... uh..." _Shrine_ feels weird to say. Her mind scrambles, "the memorial for Dean. It's really pretty."

Kristine dunks the edge of her cookie into her tea, holding it there. "Oh, right. Mother makes us keep the candle lit, which is totally ridiculous because, um? _Fire?_ This whole house is a disaster waiting to happen."

The following silence is a contemplative one. Max is about to move on, worrying her lip between her teeth as she thinks of something else to say, when Kristine lets out a laugh.

"It used to be bigger."

"Sorry?"

"The memorial. It was huge. Right in the living room, pretty big eyesore. About a hundred other photographs, his swim vest, even, Jesus, a lock of his hair." Kristine makes a face. "Mom had it all wrapped up like a delicate science experiment."

"But she took it all down?"

"Dad made her move it into the hall. It must have been making her, or both of them sad. Whatever, I don't really know. I haven't been home that much since— well, since it happened."

"How old were you?"

"When he died? Sixteen."

"And you left home after?" Max asks. "Didn't you have school?"

"I was in boarding school, so."

Kristine shrugs casually, like they're discussing the weather. It's kind of jarring how breezy she is about the subject. If anything, it makes Max more uncomfortable than if Kristine started crying or something. She's almost... blank about it.

"I didn't really, like, move out? But I had accommodation at the boarding school, so I just pretty much stayed there. Came home a couple of weekends, to see my brothers and stuff, but that was it. When I graduated, I kind of couch-surfed for a while. God, I was all over. California, San Francisco, New York; even went to Europe for a couple of months. And, almost a year and a half ago, I joined the Peace Corps." She grins. "Never looked back!"

"Wowser." Max breathes. "Didn't you... miss your family?"

Kristine laughs. Literally laughs, but not in a mean way. It sounds forced, and Max hears the tinges of sorrow in it. Barely concealed. "My brothers, sure. Of course I did. But I— okay, this sounds super weird, but I feel like I don't _really_ know my parents?" She shrugs again, a little jerkier. "I mean, I was barely home anyway. I was in boarding schools since, well, since forever. So I never really got to know them."

Max stares into the depths of her tea, struck by how chill Kristine is about the whole thing. Her parents get on her nerves sometimes, sure, but she couldn't imagine not _knowing_ them, not talking to them. They're her parents, the first relationship a newborn baby has. There are times when she gets so frustrated with them, and them with her, that she just wants to hop on a plane and run away, but she could never actually do it. Her parents wouldn't let her, for starters.

The Prescott children, Max sees them in her mind like little boats on a vast ocean. With every puff of wind, they drift, farther and farther away, from each other, from anything.

Kristine brushes crumbs off her lap. "Harry would probably tell you the same," she remarks. "Although they're a little more hands-on with him."

"I noticed. It must..." Max sighs. She's frustrated. "It must suck."

Kristine rolls her eyes. "Understatement."

It's not fair. Max is overwhelmed, suddenly, by a surging irritation with Sean Prescott and his wife. She recalls the drawings and trinkets in Sean's desk drawer, and her eyebrows knit together with the force of trying to put it all together. What's the truth? What kind of parents are they?

"What about Dean?" Max asks. "Did he go to boarding school?"

Kristine nods. "Right up until he got accepted into Blackwell. Nate was in Harry's boarding school - you know the one up in Portland - for years too, before he got Blackwell." Kristine snorts. "I swear, if you compare Harry with Dean, it's literally like they're trying to recreate him. Harry doesn't even really want to go to Blackwell, but of course, he will. Because they said so."

Max sighs under her breath. She's pretty sure Kristine hates her parents, or at least is annoyed enough by them for make Max voicing a complaint okay.

"Harry is so... _cool_ ," Max mutters. "He's so sweet and kind. I don't know how he stays so chill with them."

Kristine grabs another cookie, lifting her shoulders again in a lazy roll. "Nate used to be like that, too," she admits. She smirks at Max’s raised eyebrows. "Seriously. When he was Harry's age? Exactly the same."

"He was?"

"Yeah. Talented, actually excited about life." Kristine leans in, her eyes suddenly serious. "Wait a couple years, Max. It'll happen to Harry. They'll break him, just like they did to all of us." She sits back. "It's what they do."

Back in the foyer, the front door is suddenly pushed open, making her jump. She barely has any time to brace herself for what—or who—is inevitably about to walk through into the kitchen, before the door behind her opens. She holds her breath.

Max goes still. She can't make herself turn around, for some reason, stuck in the chair like she's been tied to it.

Kristine picks up the plate in front of her and holds it out. "Hey, kiddo," she says, "You look bushed."

The relief. Max expels it all in a breath that seems to come from every single cell simultaneously. She turns her head to see Harry, sleepy-looking, one small hand curved around the strap of a backpack that looks like it's ready to burst.

Harry eyes the cookie uncertainly. "Mom said—"

Kristine groans. " _Bro_. Do not insult the cookie."

"Sorry." He reaches over and snatches it quickly, like the chance will slip away. He doesn't look that surprised to see Max. "Hi."

"Hey," Max smiles at him, surprised at the swirl of affection that settles warm in her chest. "Long time no see!"

Kristine holds out a hand and snaps her fingers. "Lemme see what gorgeous masterpiece you created today."

Harry shifts from one foot to the other. "I didn't really draw anything new," he replies, sounding shy.

"So?" Kristine beams at him. "At least let me bask in the supreme greatness of your sketchbook in general."

Harry slips off his bag and digs in it. There's a pile of books in there, everything from school textbooks on geography, math and biology to worn old paperbacks, stamped with a library loaning seal.

Max inches forward eagerly when Kristine opens the sketchbook, flipping through it with a dazzled gleam in her eyes. Something about Harry's drawings settles her down, like calming boiling water. In Seattle, she used to go to the art galleries with her dad and spend hours there, just wandering around from exhibit to exhibit, picking over every inch of the glossy paintings. Harry's sketches are like that. She really does feel like she's in a gallery.

The recent pages are filled with various small drawings, practise sketches of hands, eyes, shoulders. His ability, as always, _far_ surpasses any of the stuff that Max has seen actual Blackwell art students create. Harry's art steals the breath from her lungs, makes her want to pick up a camera right then and there and snap a pic of the first thing she sees.

The most recent page holds a drawing that Max has seen him do before. It's stunning, in perfect and flawless detail, smudged and shaded so professionally that all she can do for several moment is just gape at it, open-mouthed like a fish. Even from upside-down, it's beautiful.

"Crows again?" Kristine says cheerily. She traces a finger across the delicately shaded wings.

"They keep coming to my window," Harry informs her, sounding proud. "Yesterday I had my window open, and that one flew in."

Kristine grimaces. "Eugh, did it poop?"

"No, it just stayed on the windowsill and looked at me."

"You're _seriously_ da Vinci," Max tells him, awestruck, and Harry laughs at that, his eyes bright with excitement.

"Are you going to the hospital on Wednesday, Max?" he asks her.

"Definitely. Are you?"

"Yeah! And Mom is letting me stay with Nate longer, 'cos Kristine is gonna be with me too."

Kristine gives her a weary, half-amused look. "I apologise in advance," she murmurs. "Nate's not exactly a ray of sunshine when I'm around."

Max opens her mouth to respond, but the kitchen door opens again, cutting her off.

She doesn't have to turn around, to know who it is.

Weirdly, she _feels_ it, like someone has thrown an enormous, suffocating sheet over the room and silenced it.

The smile on Harry's face, and the excitement in his eyes, fades.

"Harry." The voice is steady and calm. "Are you eating sweets before dinner?"

The hand clutching the half-eaten cookie lowers slowly. Harry looks a bit red, splotched around the cheeks.

"Lay _off_ him, Dad. Seriously?" Kristine groans, hands coming up to her face. She shoots Max an apologetic look in between her splayed fingers.

Max has frozen again. Her skin prickles. Her mind feels numb, and she can't remember how to speak, how to think.

Sean Prescott moves almost soundlessly over to the countertops. He drops a briefcase on the breakfast bar and braces his arms either side of it, staring Harry down over the rims of his glasses like a police officer interrogating a suspect.

He's dressed in a smart, three-piece suit, with thin pinstripes and a tailored jacket. He looks cruel. He looks powerful.

"What are the rules about sweets in this house, Harry?"

Harry's answer is a quiet, mumbled thing. "'I’m not allowed unless you or Mom say so."

Mr. Prescott doesn't seem angry or annoyed in any way. His flat, calm expression is actually ten times worse.

"I can't hear you, son."

"I'm not allowed unless you or Mom say so."

Mr. Prescott's eyes swivel to Max then, a curious look in his eyes. He smiles at her, and it's one of the most unsettling things Max has ever seen.

"Max Caulfield. I don't believe we've met."

"N-No," Max says, swallowing rapidly over the terrified lump forming at the back of her throat. She mentally curses herself. She's _not_ going to be intimidated by this man. "No, we haven't," she adds, this time clearer, louder.

She knows that he must know her name because of the bathroom, or because of the hospital, or maybe even just because he _knows_. She feels like he knows her address, her parents and their occupations, even her blood type. Her hands suddenly itch with the desire to wash them again.

"Where were you?" Kristine asks him, sounding like she doesn't particularly care about the answer. "Work?"

Mr. Prescott just nods, turns away, and apparently that's the end of that conversation.

"You okay?" Kristine asks her. She picks up another cookie and quickly stuffs it in the pocket of Harry's jeans, making the child go ashen. "You look a little pale."

"I-I just remembered." Max stands on weak legs. "I should probably get back. I have this, um, essay to do, and—"

"Christ, I've been there. Gotcha." Kristine hands her another cookie too, and scoops up her keys off of the table. "I'll give you a ride back. Harry? Want to come for the drive?"

"Okay."

"Thank you," Max spins, shuffling over to the ajar kitchen door, eager to get the hell out.

Kristine leaves first, Harry on her heels. They are already at the front door and heading out of it when Mr. Prescott calls out to Max, stopping her in her tracks, one hand on the door knob.

"Miss Caulfield?"

She turns slowly, her fingers trembling.

_Be brave, be brave, be brave._

Mr. Prescott watches her from behind the breakfast bar, his hands flat on the counter. He's wearing one of those huge sigma rings that Max has only ever seen rich bad guys in movies wear. It's thick, gold and black, marked with an unfamiliar symbol and what looks like a Latin inscription.

He smiles. It's patronizing as hell, and has her fists curling and clenching into tight fists.

She looks at him, waiting.

He nods towards the mug she left on the table, raising one eyebrow.

"We clean up after ourselves in this house."

The smile turns biting, like winter frost, when Max marches quickly over. She grabs her mug, washes it quickly with a splash of water in the sink, half-dries it with shaky fingers, and shoves it back into the cabinet Kristine had taken it out of.

She doesn't say anything, and neither does he. But she feels his eyes on her, well after she's left the house, well after Kristine drops her off.

 

* * *

 

  


The minute Kristine drops her off outside the main building, Max knows something is up. There is a pretty sizeable crowd gathered around the doors to the gym, and most of the kids gathered there are shivering a little, towels around their shoulders, their swimming outfits dripping water. 

Max makes her way over. The stench of chlorine hits her hard, but it's not the light scent she's used to. It's like the chlorine's been dipped in something shitty, essentially, rotting it. 

She spies Ms. Grant, standing with her hands on her hips and shaking her head as Principal Wells stands at the doors and attempts to order everyone to go back to their dorms. 

"Hey, Ms. Grant." Max presses a hand over her nose as another wave of the smell breezes past. "What's going on?"

"This _school_ , I swear to God," Ms. Grant sighs. "They cut the budget on the science programme and the gym. What did they expect to happen?" She turns to Max. "The filters in the swimming pool just went to hell all of a sudden. Weirdest thing."

"The pool filters?"

"You know, what keeps the water clean. The Otters," Ms. Grant gestures airily to the annoyed, cold-looking students dripping puddles onto the concrete, "were only a couple minutes into their practice. The filters just broke, and some pipes burst! Out of _nowhere!_ Then, the pool apparently got really..." She winces. "Well, not pleasant."

"Oh geez..." Max exchanges a few miserable glances with the students. "That's probably going to take a while to fix."

"Samuel is in there looking at it now, but it definitely looks like a big plumbing job. Total filter replacement, maybe new pipes." She casts a not-so-subtle glare in Wells's direction, and suddenly raises her voice. "If there was proper, _balanced_ investment in this school, this probably wouldn't have happened."

Principal Wells is harassed and stressed-looking, herding groups of the students off in the direction of the doors. He hooks Ms. Grant's eyes as he brushes past, and his head immediately shoots down, as if he's suddenly in a hurry.

As everyone else heads off, Ms. Grant kisses her teeth. "I will write a strongly-worded email about all of this. Samuel said the gym is falling apart! If Principal Wells spent more time making sure the school conditions were safe and less time golfing—" Her eyes widen, then, stretching out as she seems to remember Max is standing there. "Oh! I'm sorry, Max. This isn't appropriate."

Max smiles. "Never change, Ms. Grant. We need someone to make sure Principal Wells is doing his job."

Ms. Grant waves her off, but Max catches the brief smirk that ghosts across her lips. 

"Nice afternoon, isn't it?" She says cheerily. "Were you in town?"

"Shopping." It's not technically a lie. 

"Oh, how nice! I'm so happy to see you getting back to your old self, Max."

"Thanks, Ms. Grant." She smiles awkwardly. "At least I'm not too busted-up over the pool. I never used it." 

"Shame you're leaving Blackwell when it seems to be coming apart. I heard some of my other Senior students making plans the other day to jump into the pool, some kind of graduation stunt. Guess they can't do it now, unless they want to come out lookin' like one of my science experiments." She glances towards the shut doors, smiling to herself. "Samuel seems to think this is a _sign_ of something."

"A sign of something?"

"Nothing bad, I hope. But the pool going into such random disarray..." She shakes her head. "It certainly is strange."

Max dwells on it. The words stick like glue, not wanting to be ignored. And Ms. Grant has always had time for her strange questioning in the past. Or was it the future? Whatever. 

"Someone told me that Arcadia Bay is, um, _aware?_ " She prepares for a laugh or an odd look, just in case, but Ms. Grant just looks interested and nods. "Do you think that's true?"

"It's definitely possible."

"It is?"

"Sure. Don't you know about the lore? This land has history, tradition. It was founded by Native Americans." Ms. Grant looks around wistfully. "They worshipped this land, were connected to it intricately. In the past, Arcadia was built on a foundation of peace and tranquillity. I'd imagine that its ancestors wanted it to stay that way forever, wouldn't you?"

Max furrows her eyebrows, thinking. "Are you saying...?"

"Think about it. Open up that big mind of yours," Ms. Grant says. "When people become that bonded to a physical place, it's certainly plausible to imagine them as... spiritual guardians. Whoever told you that Arcadia is aware might be onto something, Max."

"So you think that Arcadia has, like, a spirit?" Max asks. "That the ancient ancestors or whoever are still around to— to what? Look after it?"

"Makes sense, doesn't it?" It's clear this is a favourite subject of hers. Her eyes gleam with excitement. "The world is a challenge today, Max. I could understand if those of the past would want to hold onto the peace that made them love Arcadia Bay so much."

"So it's about destiny?" Max says slowly. Her head feels kind of heavy. "Fate? Arcadia has a vision or something, of where it wants to go?"

"Fascinating, right?" Ms. Grant answers. "It could be destiny, or it simply could be about preservation. Arcadia wants to remain a peaceful town, filled with happiness, good folks and justice."

"A town with a mind of its own..." Max can't help but shake her head. "Isn't that a little... creepy?"

"If the town wished for itself to be a bad place, maybe," Ms. Grant muses. "But all Arcadia seems to want is peace. If we keep heading that direction, we can't go wrong. We'll flourish." 

"But... what happens if you go in the wrong direction?"

Ms. Grant pauses. "I don't know about that, Max. Never seen anything in Arcadia that would suggest we were defying the fate Arcadia wanted for itself. Hmm." She moves off then, still looking curious. She pauses and turns back. "I'd say if you were messing with fate, Arcadia would let you know pretty quickly." 

 

* * *

 

 

 

On Sunday morning, Dana and Juliet take her shopping; literally, take her. They rap noisily on her door and then wait approximately three seconds before they barge in, throw the covers off, and announce she's coming with them into town.

Max doesn't fully wake up until they get off the bus and the chilly air hits her like a ton of bricks. She trails after the other two as they whizz around store after store, not actually buying anything, just staring into shop windows and trying piles of clothes on for what feels like hours. Max's eyes droop tiredly the whole time, a pang of guilt piercing her chest at how irritatingly boring she must be. If the girls notice, at least they don't say anything, making her try on outfits she has no intention of buying and including her in their gossip about whoever or whatever it is in Blackwell that has piqued their interest this week. Juliet drops not-so-subtle hints about wanting to write an article on Nathan's trial, which is enough for Max to bid them a polite but rather rushed goodbye around lunchtime, making up some excuse about needing to study. Their parting hugs are full of unspoken worry, squeezing her too tight, and Max knows they're probably going to be whispering about her when she's gone. Not unkindly, she knows, but the idea still makes her uncomfortable.

Weekends are always stifling in the dormitories, and Max returns to her dorm to hide for the rest of the day. She sits there, on top of her unmade bed for a good hour just staring at a fresh, clean page in her journal, listening to the dead air and utter silence from outside, both in the hallway and on campus. The textbooks that she really should be studying sit ignored on her desk, piled up. She shouldn't have stacked them, it makes them unapproachable as hell. Like a big, scary mountain. That gets her brain off rolling on a tangent about mountains, and she spends the next hour Googling facts about mountains around the world, for no reason whatsoever.

She turns the stereo on and doodles, drawing blooming flowers and nonsense squiggly lines. She figures it progress. She doesn't feel any desire to fling anything at the wall, at least.

God, she's absolutely going to fail her finals. She imagines the possibility. She pictures her parents disappointed and vexed, her friends all going off to begin their new exciting lives as official adults, all while she has to do another year at Blackwell, another year in Arcadia.

The thought actually makes her nauseous.

She knows that she doesn't want to stay in Arcadia. She can't. The whole town is one colossal, awful trigger. Every time she turns a corner here, something always strikes her like lightning, reminding her of Chloe, of what was lost and what can never be regained. A town full of ghosts. She can't spend the rest of her life here, putting herself through that. Chloe wouldn't want that. In fact, she'd probably be pissed.

Max flops backwards onto her pillow, and shuts her eyes tight.

She thinks about Nathan, and she thinks about leaving him.

Yet another dilemma, yet another side for her to choose. What Chloe would want, what Nathan would want.

Max sits up, grabs her journal again, and flips to a new page.

She leans the journal against her knee and presses pen to paper.

She writes, _What do I want?_ , at the top of the page. Her pen pauses. Her mind churns, trying to come up with an answer. The fact nothing jumps out at her abruptly is, well, it's a little terrifying. She's eighteen, she's about to finish school. She should know by now what she wants, or at least have a vague direction in mind.

What does she _want?_

Suddenly, somebody raps loud on her door. Max starts, shutting her diary with a snap and sliding it underneath her pillow.

She wonders if it's Juliet and Dana, returning to drag her out for some well-meaning but nevertheless disastrous girl day. She locked her door this time, but she's not confident that would perturb them. Dana's athletic enough that the idea of her scaling the building is kind of plausible.

_Crap, I really need to get some sleep._

Max stays still, holding her breath, hoping that whoever this is knows her well enough to think she probably would leave her stereo on, even if she wasn't in her room. Silently, she wishes for them to go away, and feels like a bitch for doing so. Shutting herself up in here is hardly a good idea, but Max can't make herself move.

Her phone buzzes with a text.

 

_Hey Mad Max! Are you in your room?_

 

Warren. Max breathes a sigh of relief. She doesn't have to put on an act for him, at least not much of one. She doesn't have to spend the entire time wrapped in anxious paranoia that the other person is going to make her talk about something she doesn't even want to think about. God knows Warren does most of the talking for them.

Seconds after the first, her phone vibrates again.

 

_I downloaded Scott Pilgrim, and the pizza has been ordered_

When she opens the door, Warren's standing there with his laptop under one arm and starting a new text with the other. He's clearly just had a shower, his hair still damp and in his eyes, dressed in fresh clothes, including a t-shirt that proudly proclaims, _Don't worry, Pluto, I'm not a planet either._ A rather potent scent hits her and Max wrinkles her nose. Is he wearing cologne? She didn't even know Warren _owned_ any cologne.

"Hey!" He grins at her brightly.

Silence.

Warren snorts. "You forgot, didn't you." 

"Um..."

"Remember? Friday morning?"

Max remembers nothing about Friday except that she had spent much of it drifting off to sleep in most of her classes. But, God, there _was_ something blurry about Warren in there. She remembers Chemistry class, and him asking her something, but in her grogginess it had all just sounded like buzzing in her ears. Words that she nodded to anyway, just to not seem rude and...

_Oh, crap. Movie night._

"Oh my gosh, Warren, I'm _so_ sorry." She groans, stepping aside to let him in as she drags a hand across her face. "I guess I just totally spaced."

"Aw, no worries," He grins at her brightly as he climbs with lanky legs onto her bed, his back against the wall. "Guess it's a surprise, then."

Max shuts the door, suddenly aware of the chaotic mess of her room, her pajamas and the half-full jar of Nutella sitting on her desk, a spoon stuck through the top. Truly glamorous.

"Did you say pizza?"

"Pepperoni and sausage with extra cheese." Warren replies, looking proud. "Your favourite."

"You're seriously the best, Warren. Sorry for being such a crappy friend."

"Crappy? Are you kidding?" He shakes his head. "Max, don't ever feel like that."

She sits down facing him, playing with the zip of her hoodie while he sets up the movie. "Have you started studying?"

Stupid question. He's probably been studying since September.

He shrugs, and it's obvious he has, but he doesn't want to make her panic. Honestly, the chances of that are low. Max is worryingly and very dangerously resigned about finals. She can't even bring herself to feel worried about the fact she's not worried.

"You know," Warren tells her. "Just an hour or two every day. Crazy that this is it though, right?"

"You make it sound so ominous."

He laughs. "You know what I mean. Who knows where we'll be a year from now?" He looks up at her. "I mean, you'll probably be doing something beyond awesome, but as for the rest of us? Man."

Max rolls her eyes. "You'll become some kind of Chemistry genius or a mad scientist. I haven't decided which yet."

Warren bites his lip. "I, uh, I actually applied for this... thing?"

"A thing?"

"Yeah."

"What kind of thing?"

"An... internship thing. At this science lab in Portland." A drop of stray water collects off the end of his hair and drips down his nose. He wipes it away hurriedly. "It's probably whatever, but..."

" _Really?_ That's so cool, Warren!" Max exclaims, clapping him on the shoulder.

He gives her an embarrassed little smile. "If you do a good job interning, you get offered a permanent position. Just more lower-ladder stuff, but it would be seriously awesome to have that experiencing going for my degree."

"Dude, you'll land that internship."

He colors. "That's if I even get shortlisted."

"You _will_ ," Max urges. "You should get Ms. Grant to write you a recommendation."

"She already did, actually. I had to have everything submitted back in March."

Max blinks. "Oh." Something cold and confusing dips her stomach down. "So... this was already a thing? How come you didn't tell me about it earlier?"

"You had your own stuff," Warren returns, as if that answers everything.

Max frowns. She tries to make sense of that. She thinks back to shopping earlier with Dana and Juliet and wonders if they feel like that, too. If all of her friends do. It's not like Warren to keep things from her, especially things as exciting or as newsworthy as an internship he's bound to scoop. She recalls how dull she'd been with the girls this morning, how absent she must have looked. She really must be checking out, and people are letting her. She can't decide whether that's a good thing or not. She knows that the space and time they gave her in the immediate aftermath of it all had been a Godsend, but it's months and months later now. Are they uncomfortable with her? Afraid that telling her good news or showing her any sign that they're beginning to move on with their lives is going to _offend_ her?

Max hasn't moved on. It's almost summer, Rachel Amber is dead a year, and in a few shorts months, Chloe's anniversary reaches that particular milestone as well. And Max still feels caught in the sluggish, desolate current of grief and loss.

She thinks that she feels... hopelessness, or something like it, a shade of the true color. People are going to leave her behind, if she doesn't how to figure out how to move on.

"Max?"

"Sorry," she breathes. "I was just thinking."

"Care to share?" Warren's eyes are kind. "You know I'm always here."

"I was just thinking about, well, after," she replies. "After Blackwell. You know, the future?"

"What about it?"

"I... don't really know what I want."

Warren just smiles at her for a beat, a strange smile on his face.

She laughs. "What? Have I got something on my face?"

"Nope. I was just wondering how a person as _cool_ as you can't see their own supreme talent and bad assness."

"What?" She snorts. "There is literally nothing badass about me."

"Well," Warren shrugs. "Think about everything you survived. How shitty a year you had."

"Being a person that bad stuff happens to doesn't make me a badass," Max tells him weakly.

"You're still here, aren't you?" Warren says, resolute. "After everything, you're still here. That's pretty badass to me, Max Caulfield." He nudges her with his sharp elbow. "Don't worry about the stupid ol' future. You're _Max Caulfield_. It'll all fall into place for you."

Max smiles at him sadly. "I wish I could believe you."

"You will. Someday." He grins. "I mean, after all of that crap? The universe has got to owe you some _serious_ favours." He looks at her. "And wherever we do end up, we'll still hang out. Right?"

"Duh." She nudges him back. "You're not going to get rid of me that easy, Graham."

There's a strange impasse, and Warren swallows.

"Hey, uh, what if—"

Suddenly, he's interrupted by the jarring blare of the _Star Wars_ theme from his phone, now vibrating at his side.

"Pizza's here." He gets up quickly, pink dusting his cheeks as he heads for the door. "Be back in a sec."

In his absence, Max cleans up her personal pig sty. She folds clothes and screws the top back on the Nutella, stashing it back in her desk drawer for the next procrastinated, feeling-sorry-for-herself study session. She pads over to bring down the blinds, cutting off the golden glare of the fading afternoon sunlight. Trevor and Justin are doing ollies off of the benches in front of the dorms, and wave to her enthusiastically when they spot her. She switches on the fairy lights above her bed, and fishes her journal back out from underneath her pillow.

It falls open on the same page she closed it. She stares at the scribbled “ _What do I want?_ ”, and after a moment's pause, takes a pen and writes down something underneath it.

_I want the universe to recognize it owes me some favours._

She slips the diary onto the bottom of her bedside shelf and rearranges the pillows. She finds herself genuinely happy that she forgot all about movie night. If she'd known, there would have been a strong possibility she would have texted Warren in the midst of her moping and cancelled. She realises now that spending the evening watching movies with a good friend is a nice way to take her mind off all of the things she's trying so hard to ignore. Like finals, like the trial, like what the hell she's going to do in general.

When Warren returns, nudging the door open with his hip, he already has a half-eaten pizza slice in one hand.

"I love pizza," he declares, dropping the box onto Max's lap as he resumes his position next to her. "Is there a career that just requires you to eat pizza for the rest of your life?"

"God, I wish." At this point, she's desperate enough to try and invent that job herself.

When he hits play on the screen and the movie begins its opening credits, Max swallows around a mouthful of delicious crust and says, "Try not to talk so much over the whole movie this time."

Warren laughs, faking offense. "I only talk when I have some kickass movie trivia that I _know_ will enlighten your life."

Max rolls her eyes, grabbing another slice and slipping in the ear bud that Warren passes her. They sit there companionably, shoulders touching in the soft light of the room, and Max is seriously glad she forgot about movie night. This definitely beats dragging herself to bed at eight pm and forcing herself into nightmarish dreams, never sleeping through the whole night.

Warren, to his credit, doesn't talk except to swap banter, and when they are about halfway into the movie, Max is almost sleepy with how content she feels. She thinks she actually starts to doze off at one point, because Warren suddenly elbows her, and she comes back to reality with a jerk.

"Phone," Warren says.

"What?"

"Your phone is ringing."

Max feels the vibrations along the blankets and feels around under her pillow, finally finding her cell. _Nathan_ is lit up on the screen.

_Crap._

She holds the phone at an awkward angle and just stares at the screen as it rings. She _can't_ answer, not with Warren here. Panic surges in her blood.

"Not answering?" Warren asks cheerily.

Max swallows. "It's— no, it's just my mom. I can call her back."

"Don't not answer on my account. I can pause the movie--"

"It's fine, seriously." Max smiles tightly and shoves her phone back under her pillow. It goes silent a few seconds later, and she sinks back against the wall with her hands in her lap, her heart deflated.

It rings a second time, and again, Max ignores it. She keeps her eyes fixed on the screen for the next hour but doesn't actually watch it, or take in anything that's going on. She feels strangely wound up. She's never missed a phone call, like she's never missed a visit.

Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes pass. It's dark outside, maybe about nine o'clock, when Max's phone bursts to life again.

"You should answer," Warren hits pause, and the sound in her right ear cuts off. "Your mom might be worried."

Max pauses. She contemplates grabbing it and taking it out into the hall, but that's definitely suspicious.

She raises the phone slowly up to her ear and hits the button, very aware that Warren is _right_ there, right next to her.

"H-Hello?"

"Yo."

"Oh. Um." Max exhales awkwardly, too loud. "Hi. Uh. Mom."

"...Uh?"

Suddenly Warren leans over, almost right by her ear, and exclaims, "Hi, Mrs. Caulfield!"

Nathan pauses briefly. "What the fuck?"

Warren had, thank God, leaned back to the other end of the bed so he didn't catch the very distinctly male and very distinctly _not_ Vanessa Caulfield voice on the other line.

"Max?" Nathan says. "Who the _hell_ \- who is that?"

Max licks her lips. "Uh, yeah, I-I'm with Warren right now."

"Who?"

Max laughs awkwardly, conscious she's leaning away from Warren's side.

"Who the hell is Warren and why does he think I'm your mom?"

She holds her hand over the phone and smiles tightly at Warren. "I really should take this in the hall. Trust me, she's about to go on a ramble. I can tell."

In her ear, Nathan stutters. "What? _Max?_ " 

Warren nods sleepily, turning his attention to the last two slices of pizza as she breaks into a weird half-jog to get to the door and then out of it. The hallway is quiet and brightly lit, and Max hurries all the way down and into the empty bathroom before she holds the phone against her ear.

She collapses onto the closed lid of one of the toilets, shutting the stall door, mostly out of pure paranoia. 

Nathan is still talking, his voice coming loud and confused. "--going on? Yo, are you there? _Max_ \--"

"I'm here. Sorry. I'm in the bathroom right now. On the toilet."

Her eyes widen.

Why did she say that? There had been no possible reason to say that.

She flushes. "Oh my God, I'm not - I meant - I'm not actually  _on--_ " 

"...Max? What the fuck is going on?"

"Sorry." She catches sight of her flushed flace in the mirror and hopes to God that she didn't look so guilty in her room. "I was watching a movie with my friend. But I'm, um, I'm alone now."

Nathan is quiet for a second, and she pictures him leaning against the phone, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Am I your dirty little secret or something?"

Max heats. "What? No, of course not."

_Well, yes._

"I am, aren't I?"

Max leans her forehead against the cool wall, resisting the sudden urge to bang it. "It's - it's not like that."

 "Is that why you didn't answer before? You were with someone?" 

"Yeah, I'm sorry, I was with Warren. We were watching a movie."

Nathan huffs out a small, frustrated sound.

"Is he your boyfriend or some shit?"

" _No!_ Oh my God, no."

"Oh." Pause. "Well, alright. Good."

Max has no idea how to respond to _that_ , except for her face to flush an even deeper shade of crimson. She listens carefully to the tight, irritated-feeling silence on the other end and, seconds later, she finds herself smiling.

"Are you pouting?" she asks.

"What?" He snaps.

"Wow. You're _so_ pouting."

"Fuck off, I'm not." She hears a sudden attempt at repressing a smile. "Whatever. So, you're busy? You want me to hang up?"

"I'm busy right now," Max says, "but you can call back in like thirty minutes."

"Don't sound too excited."

Max rolls her eyes. " _Please_ call back in thirty minutes. I seriously want to talk to you." 

"Is Warren gonna be there?"

" _No_." She makes her way out of the bathroom, lowering her voice as she steps back out. "I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

"Tell _Warren_ I said what's up." 

"I absolutely will not." She hangs up, smirking, and heads back into her dorm.

Warren is staring at the last slice of pizza like it is taking all of his inner resolve to not reach for it and devour it in two bites. Max sits back down, shaking her head at him fondly.

"I'm stuffed," she says. "It's all yours."

Warren sinks his teeth into it, staring down at the cheesy skin like it's the most revered deity he has ever encountered. "Phank foo," he groans.

"I need to, uh call my mom back, after we finish the movie."

"No worries." Warren yawns, stretching his arms high above his head. "I'm getting dangerously tired, anyway."

They watch the end of the movie, Warren does his usual five minute post-movie analysis of the themes and characters, and then he tucks the empty, grease-stained pizza box under his arm to throw in the trash outside.

"Successful movie night!" He cheers, holding his hand up for a high-five.

Max slaps it with her own palm, laughing. "Thank you, Warren. Really. I had so much fun."

He gets an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in tight, cheek resting on her shoulder. "A pleasure as always, Caulfield." He lingers there in the doorway for a second, mouth parted like he wants to say something else, but then he gives her a lazy salute and heads out the door, letting it shut firmly behind him.

Max turns her stereo back on before she calls Nathan back, filled with a ridiculous paranoia that someone will hear. The walls around here are thin enough that Max has heard pretty much everything you can hear in a dormitory. She lies down in the sea of blankets, one hand resting on her stomach that feels swollen and full with pizza, and brings the phone back up to her ear.

It rings four times before Nathan answers.

"Max?"

"Hey."

"Hey." His voice drops an octave. " _So_ , do I have you all to myself now?"

She flushes. "Um—"

"I think I remember a Warren," Nathan remarks. "Fuckin' nerdy guy with weird shirts?"

"Hey, easy. That's my friend you're talking about."

"But I'm right? He _is_ nerdy?"

"I mean... yeah. Yes."

Nathan snorts.

"But so am I," Max adds. "Nerds are going to take over the world, you know."

"I fear the fucking day."

Max rolls over, pressing her cheek into the soft pillow that now smells firmly of pizza. "How're you doing?"

"I'm whatever. Kristine was here."

"Oh," Max smiles pleasantly. "How is she?"

"Dunno. I tend to block her out when she's around."

"I'm sure she appreciates that."

"She thinks she's doing me some great service by coming to see me," Nathan scoffs. "Like breathing down my neck now is making up for every single year that she was MIA."

Max softens. "She told me about how she left, after Dean's death. I think she feels guilty, Nathan."

"Good," he spits. "I'm fuckin' glad."

Max opens her mouth to say... well, something. She's planning on winging it, but Nathan gets there first.

"I bet she was all talk about the trial, right?" He snorts. "Word of advice? Don't count on her being there. She'll skip town again. Wait and see."

Max presses her lips together. She can still taste pizza grease.

"How long is it now?" she asks quietly. "Two weeks? Three weeks?"

"Almost three." He swallows. "You're still going to testify, right?"

"Yeah. I will."

"I have a lawyer" Nathan says. "Carmin Silva. She's actually not that shitty. You should talk to her. She'll figure out some way for your testimony to get me off the hook, I know she will."

Max presses her tongue between her teeth. "S-Sounds good. I'll do that."

"And the stuff about my dad," Nathan goes on, his voice dropping an octave. "Talk to her about that, too. She's been waiting for a chance to kick his ass since she started working for him. She's bound to help you."

Max turns back over, pulling the blanket up over her shoulders for something to hold onto. "Are you scared?" she asks. "About the trial?"

"It's... easier," Nathan returns, uncharacteristically quiet, "knowing that I have you." He inhales sharply. " _Uh_ , you know, on my side. I... I feel like you really believe me."

Max looks down. "I do, Nathan. I know you didn't mean to do anything wrong." She stares up at the ceiling, at the expanse of it. "I don't want you to go to prison."

He's quiet for a second, and the silence, his presence on the other line, is comforting.

"What are you up to?" he asks eventually.

"Staring at the huge pile of books I'm ignoring," Max answers. "You?"

"Staring at Nell who is staring at me like a creeper. She probably knows I'm talking to you."

"Nell is _still_ there?" Max huffs out a laugh at that. "It's almost ten! Talk about dedicated. Why is she staring at you?"

"Because I'm over the ten minute limit," he says, annoyed. "I have to go."

"Oh." Max's chest dips in disappointment. "Okay, well, I guess I'll see you on Wednesday."

"Looking forward to it. Really."

Max sits up, ready to say goodbye, when Nathan's voice comes again in her ear, steady and hopeful.

"Max, do you really think... if we can convince them that my dad was behind all of this, if I tell them everything about the Dark Room, do you think they'd let me go? Or at least, not put me away?"

"I think so," Max says. "I hope so."

"Okay," Nathan says. "Okay."

They say goodbye and hang up, and Max lies there with the phone clutched against her chest for a few minutes. Her hand rises and falls with every gentle glide of her breath, and she can't stop her eyes from closing.

She's dozing again, when a loud bang, like a bullet bursting from a gun, jerks her back awake, heart hammering with fright.

She sits frozen for a second, her breath held, and something compels her to pad over to the window, where she thought she heard the noise.

She raises the blinds to reveal a still, dark night, and fits her fingers underneath the window to lift it open. Cold air hits, sharp and shivery, and she leans out to check for the source of the noise.

When she looks down, she realises what she'd heard.

A crow lies dead on the windowsill, its neck broken, having hit her window at the speed it did.

Max expels the breath she'd been holding, and it mists in front of her.

On the horizon, the lighthouse winks.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Irrelevant side note: I'm obsessed with writing Kristine. :'D


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter because this one was originally part of chapter 16! The trial should start about 1 or 2 chapters after the next one, which means this ol' fic will soon be done!! Crazy. Things are hopefully starting to come together. Thank you guys for sticking around & for your support and kindness, which continues to bowl me over <3 A thousand thank yous to Kittiara for her hard work on this one, and a big congrats on finishing her exams!! :D
> 
> Anywho, this chapter: detective!Max, Prescott feels and... well, you'll see. ;) Hope you enjoy!

 

  
Max arrives at the Arcadia Police Station on what must be a slow day. Not that there has or ever is much going on that the cops need to deal with, but still. It's almost doubly quiet as Max steps through the door, instantly assaulted by the smell of fresh paper, coffee and ink. 

Many of the desks dotted around are empty, and the few officers that are there are standing around, sipping from chunky mugs and laughing uproariously at something nonsensical. Most of them turn and raise an eyebrow at her as she walks by. 

She's only ever been in the station once before. She remembers being seven and tagging along with her dad after his car had been stolen at work. They eventually found the car, but the hours of tedium spent with her father before in this station, watching him fill out an endless stack of paperwork with the most defeated expression she's ever seen, certainly cemented a dislike for police stations in general. 

She feels seven again, small and vulnerable. She chews absent-mindedly on her lip as she glances around, taking everything in. 

Maybe he's not here? Any time she's spotted him, he has always been out on patrol, or driving around with the sirens going, or slumped sleepily at the counter in the  _Two Whales_ nursing a dark cup of coffee. But she can't try and look for him there, because Joyce would see her. And Joyce would want to know why she wants to talk to him, and Max, Max would end up telling her: the guilt too much. She strikes that plan through and bounces with anxiety on her heels. 

And then,  _thank God_ , he's right there. Scribbling in a manila folder behind a cluttered desk, half a donut poking out the side of his cheek.

Max hurries over. She doesn't miss the way his eyes pop in confused bafflement at the sight of her. 

"Good morning, Officer Berry," she says, trying to sound more confident than she feels. 

There's a weird silence then, punctuated by his chewing. Max fights for anything to lull the quiet and settles, half-desperately, on the donut he's munching.

"You look so like a stereotypical police officer right now," she points out. "Um, the donut...?"

Relief whooshes across her like wind when he swallows and smiles at her. 

"I guess I do." He wipes his hands together in front of him and, after a second of uncertainty, gestures airily towards the pulled-out chair on the other side of the desk. "Morning, Max. You here to see me?"

"Yes, actually," Max sits and returns the smile. 

Officer Berry closes the folder and slides it away. "Hope you aren't in any trouble."

"No, nothing like that. It's actually about the trial."

"Yikes," Officer Berry cringes. "I forgot that's coming up. Three weeks, right? Damn. I hope you're ready, Max. Going up against the Prescotts in court isn't going to be a picnic."

"That's, um, actually what I wanted to talk to you about. The trial, and getting ready for it."

He gives her a curious stare. "Alright. What can I do for you?" 

There are a few ways that she could play this, and all of them blaze fast across her mind in the five seconds at least that she has, before the silence stretches on too long and she blows it. She could tell him all about the plan to turn the trial on Sean, talk until the words pour from her mouth in an unstoppable fountain. She could bring up Carmin's name, see if that makes him squirm. She could talk about Nathan, how he needs this, wants this, if he wants to get out. In a beat of shame, she contemplates bringing up Chloe's name, twisting the story to wring out sympathy. Her heart sinks sickly, and she pushes the thought away. 

She's not manipulative. She's not Sean Prescott. 

Right as the five seconds tick over, Max makes her choice. She chooses honesty. 

"I wanted to talk to you about Sean Prescott."

Officer Berry blinks comically slow. 

Max's skin feels itchy. "And, um, Dean."

Officer Berry sits back in his seat and then pushes himself forward, never tearing his eyes from her. He takes a sip of his coffee and puts it down, and then takes another sip, his brow scrunching tight over the rim. 

Max waits, holding her breath.

Officer Berry's eyes have rounded slightly. "Is this about your testimony?" he asks. 

Technically, yes. Max presses her lips together firmly and rolls the same word over and over again across her tongue.  _Honesty, honesty, honesty._

"It is," she replies.

"What could they have to do with your testimony? This whole trial is about Nathan and Miss Price." 

Max panics. "I just need information. Or, uh, context; to help my testimony." She flushes and quickly adds, "It would seriously help me in court."

Officer Berry gives her a long, investigative stare. 

Max holds her breath again, for so long now that it burns in her throat, clamps down hard on her lungs. 

Officer Berry sits back again. "Well," he says slowly, "If that's so, I'll try and help you in any way I can, Max. What did you want to know?"

Victory feels like liquid gold, pooling in the pit of her stomach.

Max inhales deeply before she starts. "Did you know Dean Prescott?"

Officer Berry shrugs. "I know all the Prescott kids. Knew Dean pretty well, though. You'd see him around town all the time." 

"What was he like?"

"Type of kid that helped old ladies across the street," Officer Berry tells her, with a sad smile. Slowly, the smile fades. "At least, in the beginning." He clears his throat roughly. "Last year or so of his life, he went downhill faster than I've ever seen. He started getting into trouble. Small stuff, at first, typical rich kid misdemeanours. But, then, uh..." 

"Drugs?" 

He watches her, astonishment working its way into his eyes. "You know about that? Holy crap. This town is full of more gossips than I thought."

Max bites her lip. "Yeah."

"Don't worry about it," he says. "I guess it's not so much of a secret anymore." He shakes his head, mostly to himself. "Yeah, Dean fell into that pile of shit, all right. I actually arrested him only a week or so before he overdosed."

Max's eyebrows arch. "You did?" 

"Yeah. We were driving through the main part of town when we spotted him, stumbling his way past the diner. We knew by then that the beach was a popular spot for deals, so when we stopped him and started talking to him, we figured out that's where he'd been pretty quickly."

"How was he?"

"Like he always was around that time. Sort of... harrassed, always in a rush." 

"I bet Mr. Prescott didn't like the fact you arrested him."

Officer Berry swallows, hesitating, and then he leans in and drops his voice low. "I only did it because my partner was with me at the time. It would have looked weird if I just let him go."

"You would have done that?"

Officer Berry shifts around then, and Max gets the feeling that she's had this conversation before. There are two colored splotches on his cheeks. She pushes past the migraine that blooms when she tries to remember. She does remember. 

Officer Berry told her once about some deal between he and the Prescotts.

"I heard a rumour," she says quickly, fervent to not lose this track of conversation, "that you and Mr. Prescott had some kind of deal?"

"Jesus H, I hate this town." Officer Berry sighs heavily. "Keep this quiet, but yeah. Yes. He helped me and my family out once,  _really_ helped us, and in return I promised to check up on his kids, you know? Make sure they were doing all right." 

"So you knew Dean was doing drugs, and you ignored it?"

"I didn't  _ignore_ it," Officer Berry retorts. "I only found out the extent of it after he passed away. That day we arrested him, all he had on him was one joint. So we let him off with a warning. I figured that's all it was, just minor possession. I told myself that Mr. Prescott - or Scarlett, his wife - would handle it. I thought he'd grow out of it, that it was just a teenager thing."

He looks ashamed. 

"It wasn't your fault," Max says softly. She tugs awkwardly at her collar. 

Officer Berry shakes his head. "I should have done something. I knew that Bowers degenerate was involved, that it wasn't just minor." He rubs his hands tiredly over his eyes, suddenly looking ten years older. "He actually called me, the night he died."

"Seriously? He called 911?"

"No, no. He had my personal cell number. He called and, it was only for a few minutes but, he sounded messed up. He sounded high. All slurred and rushed."

"What did he say?"

"I couldn't really understand. And you know what I did then?" He looks away. "I hung up on the kid. I was pissed that he called me high, thinking he wanted me to pick him up or he'd gotten into some kind of trouble, and I couldn't deal with that." Max watches the color drain slow from his face. "The next day, his mom calls me instead, and she says that he's dead." 

Max's mouth is weirdly dry. "Do you know what Dean overdosed on?" 

"Alcohol," Officer Berry says, "mixed with ketamine."

Max goes rigid.

"Did you say ketamine?"

"Yeah. Makes me sick, to think about it. What the hell was he thinking?"

There it is. It bursts like a blinding, neon-purple thread across Max's vision and burns hot in the air. She thinks she's sweating. Her heart gives an enormous clang, and she's thinking too quickly for her brain to catch up, because there it is,  _there it is—_

A connection, between Dean and the Dark Room. A real one. Something Carmin could use.

"And Mr. Prescott lied," Max says, not realising that it's out loud until the words are gone, out of her mouth, tumbling onto the table with a muted thump. "He said that Dean had a heart condition. He made you guys lie."

 _He knew_ , Max thinks, with such a ferocity that it truly feels like the words are too big for her mind, rattling around in her skull, growing larger and larger and trying to get out, to be known. 

Mr. Prescott knew that if anyone ever found out about the Dark Room, knowing that Dean had overdosed on the same drug that the girls were being given, then they could join the dots. Or ask questions, probing questions, that only swelled with time and silence. 

Officer Berry is right. This town could talk, and Mr. Prescott knew that better than anyone.

He was prepared to do anything to separate himself from the Dark Room, going as far as to bury the truth about his own son's death.

Officer Berry is shaking his head at her. "So, Arcadia figured it all out. That's why you're here? You want to use this as evidence?" Max just nods. He sighs again. "It was only a matter of time. But I can see it will really help Ms. Price's family, to find out what kind of creep Mr. Prescott really is."

"What did he do, exactly?"

"Bought off our Chief. Made us swear to keep it all a secret."

Max's heart is still pounding hard. "Is there - is there evidence of this? Of Mr. Prescott lying?"

"Dean's autopsy report?" Officer Berry points out. "It's buried somewhere, but it exists." He hesitates. "Max, I can't give it to you. You understand, right? You're a witness, not--"

"Could you give it to a lawyer?"

"I— Yeah. If they request it." The curious stare is back. "Why do I feel like this isn't just about—" He raises two fingers on each hand and does air quotes, " _Context'_ " _?_ " 

"It's..."  _Honesty._ She got this far after all. "It's sort of not?"

"You'd make a good officer, Max," Officer Berry remarks, with some amusement. "You're obviously investigating something. But if it's for Chloe, then I have to say, it's good to see. You're a true testament to Arcadia and to Blackwell."

She stands, suddenly eager to get away from the compliments that she doesn't deserve, nor want. 

"You really helped me," she tells him. 

"Well, I'm glad." He shakes her hand. "Good luck with your testimony. If you're planning on putting Mr. Prescott away as well, then I applaud you. This town will certainly sleep better knowing him, and that maniac son of his, are locked up somewhere without a key."

Max's handshake turns limp. She steps back, fakes a smile, and nods jerkily. She leaves without another word. 

Outside, it's pouring, and she huddles underneath the jutting-out roof of the station as she pulls out her phone. This side of town faces the beach. As she brings her phone up to her ear, she watches the slate grey sky hang over the even darker, murkier looking sea, at the waves crashing roughly against the rocks. 

No beached whales, that's a good sign.

But... a crow. Perched on the roof of a cop car with its slicked, jet-black wings tucked neatly either side of itself, looking down at her with frightening intensity. 

Why is it always just one crow? 

Max looks away from it, right as the phone connects.

"Hello?"

"Carmin," she breathes. "I went to the police station."

"And?"

"Dean Prescott's autopsy report. I need you to get it. They can't give it to me."

"A plus, Max," Carmin says, and she sounds like she's smiling. 

"Didn't you know?" Max asks, and it comes out far more accusatory than she intended. "You were there. You knew that Dean overdosed on ketamine, and you didn't mention it once."

"Yes, but as I said, I had no evidence. I never saw the autopsy report, and Mr. Prescott was always fuzzy on whether he even had one drawn up or not. But now, thanks to you, I know that there is one and it's in the hands of the Arcadia coroner."

"Why didn't the coroner come forward?" Max continues. "They made the report. They knew Dean overdosed."

"They were bribed to remain quiet. Mr. Prescott, with my help, managed to convince them it was a matter of grave embarrassment and distress for the family and if they revealed the details, they would be liable for slander. Everybody knows Mr. Prescott's reputation is his priority."

Max scowls. "Not for long." She kicks hard at a pebble and watches it skirt across the concrete. "Does Mr. Prescott bribe  _everybody_ he meets?"

"Money, Max. It's universal. It's the foundation on which this world of ours turns. You'll find greed is a weakness for a lot of people."

Max can't come up with a response that's not laced with angry, frustrated expletives, so she swallows down the irritation. "Dean also called Officer Berry the night he died." 

"He did?" It's clear that this is new information to Carmin. "Did he call Berry's own cell phone?" 

Max makes an affirmative hum. "What will you do now?" she asks. 

"I'll get the autopsy report released into evidence, and get my hands on those phone records. They could be useful. You said it was Berry you talked to?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. I'll get a subpoena."

"A what?"

"It means he'll have to appear in court. Always good to have too many witnesses than too little."

"But," Max flushes. "I don't want Officer Berry to get in any trouble. He took a bribe too."

Carmin sighs. "In fairness, he's going to be a lot better off than Sean, if this plan of ours works."

" _If_ it works?" Max flinches. "This  _has_ to work. I need this to work."

"It will. Calm down, Max," Carmin says kindly. "You're doing great so far."

Max's face has gone so hot, she steps out from underneath the shelter to feel the icy raindrops splash against her forehead. 

"I'll talk to you soon," Carmin says. "In the meantime, try and find any other leads you can follow."

"Okay."

Max hangs up and stuffs her phone back into her pocket. She's starting to get soaked. The cold seeps through her clothes, numbing her skin. Suddenly, she jumps with fright when a powerful roll of thunder booms above her head, shouting out its rumble behind the thick cover of grey, heavy rainclouds. 

The crow is so drenched now, completely black.

Max flicks her eyes to it nervously, and swallows. 

_Could it be...?_

Through the rain, through freezing lips that feel rubbery, she manages to get out a murmured, "I'm on top of things. Don't worry."

The crow turns and flies away.

 

* * *

 

 

The weather that bleeds over the weekend and into the early days of the week is bordering on lunacy. It rains all day on Saturday and Sunday, the sky is permanently dark, and it feels so far removed from mid April that everyone in Arcadia seems to be in a permanent bad mood. Max spends the weekend sleeping and once again avoiding the imposing mountain of study textbooks on her desk. The dorm is quiet that weekend, the weather causing nearly all to shut themselves up in their rooms with pajamas and blankets and studying. Max is still attending the weekly study group, but it's becoming clear that she's not as invested as the others. Every session is spent swapping stories about where they're planning to go to college, or what exotic places they want to travel to. Max pretends to read the same paragraph of her English book over and over and dodges any questions with a shrug and a half-smile. 

Monday and Tuesday are, jarringly, blisteringly hot. Max wakes up on Monday morning to streaming sunlight, sweaty underneath the sheets, and wonders for a second if the sun is exploding. 

Her peers swap their sweaters for shorts and the dorms reek of sunscreen for two days straight. The mundane quiet lurches into giddy, sunbaked excitement, and Max observes groups heading off to the beach after class every free period like Arcadia Bay has transformed overnight into one of those golden-hued, glitzy television shows where the characters are permanently sun tanned and sandy. 

Nathan calls her on Monday morning and Tuesday night. Halfway through Tuesday's light conversation, Max catches herself wondering when exactly it all changed. When she looked forward to their visits not with worried apprehension, but instead with genuine glee and enthusiasm. When did they start to talk like actual friends? When did she start to become aware of how many times he makes her face heat in one conversation, or how many genuine grins he pulls from her? More importantly, when did Nathan stop being Nathan Prescott and start being Nathan? 

It's still searingly hot when she arrives on the ward on Wednesday. The AC is turned on full blast, and it's like stepping into the world's largest refrigerator. The windows are opened as far as they can be, which is barely anything, but unfortunately there is no breeze to drift in. The air muggy and thick, as heavy and immovable as wet sand. 

Nell is fanning herself with a  _Let's Talk: Depression_ leaflet, half-draped over the front desk. 

"Hey," she says tiredly. "Looks like Nathan's got a full house today."

Max glances over her shoulder. Nathan is slumped at one of the tables with his face hidden on his folded arms. Kristine is waving her hands and talking animatedly, and Harry is just sitting there quietly, drinking from a juice box. 

Max's eyes linger on Nathan, and Nell laughs softly in her ear. 

"He's having about as much fun as he looks," she says dryly. "Have you met his sister?"

"I think she's really nice."

"Hey, me too. She's a little... wired, though."

At that precise moment, Kristine claps her hands excitedly, so hard that she nearly topples from her chair.

"Oh my God,  _Max!_ " She yells, waving like she's not just a few feet away. "Hey!"

Nathan's head shoots up. 

"Max," he groans. "Fuckin' save me."

Nell chuckles and pushes her forward. "Have fun."

Kristine hugs her hard, nails digging into her shoulders. "It's so cool to see you again!" She pulls back and shoves non-too-gently at Nathan's shoulder. "Stop being miserable. Everybody's here to see you."

"I'm honoured," Nathan deadpans.

Harry sets his juice box down and waves. "Hi." His lips are stained purple, like a bruise, from his juice.

Max smiles at him and feels a swell of affection as she sits down, across from Nathan, with Kristine and Harry on other sides of the table. As well as the juice box, there is a game of Scrabble on the table. A game is in progress, but it seems to have been abandoned for a while now. 

Kristine reaches for the section of the box that's filled with the letters. "You good at Scrabble, Max?"

"Oh, it's fine, I wouldn't want to interrupt--"

"You can use mine," Nathan grumbles, pushing the board around so that his row of letters is now facing her. Max raises her eyebrows, and has to bring a hand up to cover her mouth, to stop herself from laughing out loud. Everything Nathan has spelled out so far is an expletive. 

"You're not playing?" Harry says.

Nathan shakes his head, and then rests it on his arms again. 

Kristine sighs. "Nate."

" _Kristine_ ," he snaps back. He huffs out a groan. "Since when do we do this?"

"Do what?"

" _This!_ " he gestures frustratingly towards the table. "Since when are we the kind of family that sits around and plays fuckin' Scrabble?"

Kristine's cheeks are flushed. She keeps stealing tiny, anxious glances at Max, like she needs to apologise or something. "We could be," she murmurs. 

Nathan snorts. 

"We can play something else," Harry offers quietly. 

Kristine starts packing up the board, glaring at every piece she shoves into the box. "It's okay, Harry. Nathan's obviously not in a good mood today."

Nathan glares at her, but it's like Kristine doesn't have the energy to glare back. 

Harry lifts a hand and glides it gently across Nathan's scrunched-up forehead, as though trying to smooth the anger away. "Is it a bad head day?" 

"Yeah," Nathan catches his hand and brings it back down to the table, holding it for a few seconds before he lets go. "It's a bad head day."

Max nibbles on the inside of her cheek, her eyes darting all over the room, doing her best to look calm. She feels like she shouldn't be here, that this is a family thing, and she's intruding. She knew that Kristine and Harry were going to be here, but she didn't expect how tense the air would be. It's as heavy as the humidity outside. 

Harry seems to be feeling it too. His bright eyes swivel to Max. "It's my birthday next week," he informs her.

"No way! How old will you be?"

"Ten."

"Wowser, that's a big one!" Max smiles. "What would you like?"

"You don't have to get him anything, Max," Kristine interjects gently. Nathan rolls his eyes.

"It's cool, I want to."

Harry blushes. "Thank you." 

"I bet you want art stuff, right?" Max asks him. "New paint, or a new sketchbook?"

Harry's grinning. He's sunburnt around his nose and forehead, and freckly everywhere else. He seems overwhelmed with excitement as Max lists off possible presents. "Thank you," he repeats shyly.

Max laughs. "I'll surprise you then." 

"When's your birthday?" Harry asks. 

"September 21st. So, not for a while."

Harry's shoulders suddenly slump. 

"Oh," he mumbles. "I'm going to miss it. We're gonna have moved to Boston by then."

Nathan stands up abruptly. His face is unreadable. "Do you want something from the vending machine?" he barks.

"Me?" Harry blinks. "Um, no thank you." 

Nathan gives him a weary look. "Harry, they're not here. Let me get you something."

"No, it's okay, I—"

"Nate, leave him alone," Kristine sighs. "If he doesn't want anything—"

"Kids should get candy," Nathan cuts her off, glaring. "They have him brainwashed. He can be a kid. He can have candy if he wants."

"But he doesn't want—"

Harry looks down at his lap. His "Please stop fighting" is barely audible, and snaps Max's heart clean in two.

"Nathan," Max says, and Nathan looks at her. His expression softens. "Sit down, it's cool."

He does, lowering himself slowly by the elbows. His face is a mixture of things. 

Kristine reaches across the table and clasps Harry's hand with both of hers. "We'll see you," she says. "In Boston. We'll come visit." 

Nathan scoffs. "I wouldn't hold your breath on Kristine, Harry."

She flushes, angry again. " _Nate._ "

"Where will I be?" Nathan snaps, to no one in particular. "You think I'll ever be able to come and visit?" 

Harry frowns. His small voice gradually gets higher, until he manages to talk over their vicious back-and-forth growls.

"Dean said we were the four amigos," Harry says, and instantly the table falls silent. His frown deepens as he looks from Nathan to Kristine. "Now we're the three amigos but all you guys do is fight. I want us to stay being the three amigos even when I'm in Boston, but you always ruin it by fighting."

Both of them seem to deflate, but in different ways. Nathan crosses his arms, tense and frowning, and when he flops back in his seat he stares up at the ceiling with a strange lump in his throat and his jaw held rigid. He remains silent. 

Kristine's lips part, and her shoulders fall. She leans forward slowly, her face slack, vulnerable and open. Max swears her eyes are glassy.

"You're right," she says. "I'm sorry, Harry."

Nathan swallows. "Sorry."

Kristine smiles sadly. "We're trying."

Harry nods, looking years beyond nine and a half. "Try harder," he says. 

Kristine reaches across the table and pats his hand. "We should go," she says. She looks over at Nathan apologetically, but he doesn't seem to be listening. He's watching Max. "Sorry it had to be a short visit today, little brother. But Harry's had a long day of school, you know."

"Yeah, whatever."

Nathan is stiff when Harry hugs him, but his hands sweep briefly across Harry's hair. Kristine doesn't hug him, or say much of a goodbye. She just waves. Max feels awkward when Kristine hugs her, though. 

"Bye!" Harry hugs her too, flushing Max with affection for him. 

Max stands there, one side of the table with Nathan standing at the other, and watches them go. 

They're a broken family, she realises. Barely sticking together. 

Nathan swallows. "Want to go outside?"

"It's like standing in the middle of a fire out there," Max says, eyebrows raised. "You sure?"

"I just need some air." 

Max nods, and follows him down the usual route. 

Outside, Max isn't long growing sticky. She feels kind of gross as she wanders after him into the gardens, and self-consciously keeps wiping the damp perspiration beads she can feel breaking out across her mouth, forehead and neck. She takes a moment to condemn herself for always wearing hoodies. 

Nathan isn't really dressed any better. With the thick material of the hospital pants and the long-sleeved aspect of his soft blue button-down, she has no idea how he's not collapsed on the grass, dying of heat stroke. She walks behind him and notices how his hair has gone slightly curly with the humidity around his ears. She notices the broad line of his shoulders and the slimness of his arms—

And then he's turning around, and  _crap_ , catching her basically ogling.

He quirks an eyebrow. "Y'all right?"

"Yeah, sorry." Max flushes, thankful she can blame it on the heat, and brushes past him until they reach their bench. 

The gardens aren't too busy today, with just a few patients milling around. Some are gardening, hands deep in the dry earth, under the guidance of orderlies. The smell of the flowers is fruity and strong beneath the heat. 

Max slips her hoodie off, leaving her in the white t-shirt with the doe. Nathan is looking at her, gaze lingering just a little too long, before he turns and looks up at the clear blue sky.

Max digs a hand in her messenger bag, pulling out her iPod. 

She offers Nathan an earbud.

He nods, taking it and putting it in. His fingers drum rapidly on his knee. 

Max brings up her music collection and suddenly freezes.

"Um, I just realised you're probably not going to like anything I have." 

"Why?" He looks amused. "You have nothin' but death metal on there or something?"

That brings a laugh out of her. "No, it's just, very..."

Nathan blinks. "Nerdy?"

"I don't think there's such thing as nerdy music?"

"There fucking is. What does  _Warren_ listen to?"

"Seriously, you need to stop," Max says, but she's laughing again. "It's not like that."

"Can I see?" Nathan holds out his hand. 

With some nervousness, Max hands it to him.

She bites her lip as his thumb flicks the screen, going down through the lengthy list. His expression doesn't give anything away.

"Well," he says eventually, "it is nerdy."

Max swats him on the arm. "Fine, give it back. I'll--"

"You didn't let me finish," Nathan interrupts. "It's nerdy, but not shitty."

"Wow, thank you."

He rolls his eyes. "I have a lot of the same stuff on mine. Or, had, whatever. My parents probably put my iPod on eBay." 

"Seriously?" Max can't stop her eyes widening. She doesn't think Nathan would lie about it, but the thought that they have similar music tastes is almost too baffling to comprehend. "To be honest, I kind of pictured  _you_ as a heavy metal fan."

"Fuck no." Nathan scrolls, and one album catches his attention. "No way! I love this one." He hits the first song, and lowers the volume just enough so that they can talk at a comfortable pace. 

Max is shaking her head. "That's... actually one of my favourite albums," she says, with potent disbelief. 

Nathan smiles at her. He turns away and his fingers tap to the soft melodic beat, now. The smile remains. 

They sit there in music-accompanied quiet for two whole songs. Max feels... she can't say how she feels. She feels everything. 

There have been so many moments during this reality, this fresh start, that have almost smothered her with the weight of the disbelief and surprise. Sitting on a bench, on a sunny day, listening to music with a calm Nathan Prescott... this pretty much tops the list. 

Nathan nudges her. "You want to hear a story?"

She glances over with interest. "Always."

He's smirking. "Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to steal the Tobanga?"

"You don't really tell me anything," Max says, but she's grinning. "It's always me doing the talking. Telling you something." 

"Right. Well, here's  _me_ telling  _you_ something." 

Max waits, smiling. 

"Context first, though."

"Do I really need context for a story about you stealing the Tobanga?" 

"Yeah, you do. It's important." He sniffs. "So, years ago, when Dean first started at Blackwell, our mom dropped me over to the campus so I could hang out with him for a while. I met him outside the dorms, and we were looking up at the Tobanga."

Max nods along.

"He said that, at the end of the year, he was going to steal it. Like a prank or whatever. He was bragging about it, saying it would be the funniest shit, because no one would think it was him."

"What was he going to do with it?"

"I don't know, he didn't really think that far. Fuckin' idiot," Nathan says, but he's grinning. A real one, with teeth. "He had a couple of ideas. Anyway, I wanted to help. I said we could do it together, that it would be fun."

"And he said yes?"

"Hell no. He laughed in my face and said I'd get us caught, or mess it up somehow." Nathan's fingers stutter in their drumming, just briefly. "I wouldn't give up, I swore that I could do it before him. He laughed again and then he dared me to. He bet me that I couldn't steal it."

"So what happened?"

Nathan's fingers stop drumming completely, and the smile vanishes. 

Max remembers. Counts the timeline in her head. Her heart sinks.

"Oh," she mumbles.

"As you know, the bastard wasn't there at the end of the year for his big groundbreaking prank." Nathan's voice has gone a little strange, all tight at the edges. "So, he never got to steal it."

Max's hand falls on his shoulder. He lets it stay there. 

"Then, in September of last year," Nathan says, "not too long after I started at Blackwell, I was up in my room, staring out at that fucking Tobanga. And I was so riled up. I was so pissed off. I hated it. I wanted - I wanted it  _gone_."

"Because it reminded you of him," Max notes. 

"So I went out there after midnight or some shit, and I didn't have anything with me, no shovels or whatever the fuck you'd need to dig up a fucking totem, and I spent about five minutes kicking the thing before I tried to actually get it out of the ground."

"You sounded really mad."

"I was also drunk as shit, so."

Max feels like laughing. She doesn't know why. It's not a funny story, it's too laced with grief. But somehow it's all so profoundly  _Nathan_ that it ripples a smile across her face. 

"Long story short, I hardly shifted the thing. Christ, then Wells came out of his office and found me, and there was, like, steam coming out of his ears. I don't know whether he was more pissed about me being drunk or about the Tobanga. And all I could think about was my brother. Laughing his goddamn ass off. Saying that I couldn't do it, that he was right. And, fuck, I..." he trails off, mouth working but no sounds coming out. "I missed him."

Max's hand is still on his shoulder. It moves down, lingering kind of awkwardly at his elbow.

But then Nathan takes her hand, and twists their fingers, and his palms are clammy with the heat. 

"What the fuck would he say," Nathan says quietly, staring at where their hands are joining, "if he knew I was here. What I did."

"Don't torture yourself," Max says. "You can't think like that."

"All I can do in here is think. About everything I did, everybody I hurt." He looks over, frowning. "Wondering why the fuck you still want to come around here. Why you want to help me."

His thumb brushes against her knuckles, his skin so much rougher. Calloused, nails bitten.

"Do I really need a reason?" 

"Everybody has a reason," Nathan says brusquely. He turns his head, and it occurs to her how close they are. "Everybody uses me. I'm still trying to figure out what you want me for." 

His eyes are younger. Open. If they had arms, she thinks they'd be reaching for her.

And in that moment, Max realises that she'd be reaching back.

And she has no idea how to answer him, not with words. 

So she does the next best thing, the thing that bursts at the forefront of her mind, the thing that suddenly makes so much sense and seems like the only rational, plausible and  _right_ thing to do. 

She leans across the short space between them and kisses him. 

Nathan instantly goes rigid.

But Max has gone for it, and she can't stop. Too far gone to pull back. Her hand curls gently around his shoulder. He smells like every reality crossed over into one, so heady that Max could drown. 

When she does pull back, just a little, Nathan is staring at her with wide eyes, mouth parted.

And she knows she's blown it.

The embarrassment is a harsh blow to her stomach. She hadn't thought it possible, but her face heats up even more.

"Crap," she says, and her voice feels clumsy, something she's suddenly not used to. "I— um, I—"

He stands up, face red, eyes still saucers, and she wants to kick herself. 

She opens her mouth to breathe out a half-hysterical apology, stomach somersaulting, lips still feeling the surprising softness of his own—

But he's not running in the opposite direction. He's pulling her, fingers still intertwined, around the bench and up the slightly sloping grassy hill to an alcove between the walls of the hospital. Max can hear herself speaking, but she doesn't think she's saying words. Her breath hitches when Nathan turns and presses her against the wall, the two hidden from view, a line of trees blocking the gap, and he's kissing her. Fervent, hands tangling up underneath her hair, tight but not painful. Just right. 

And it feels like finally. It feels like nothing she expected, nothing she could have prepared for. 

They break apart, breathless, only to simultaneously dive back in. 

"Max? Chuckles?"

_Shit._

Max pulls away like she's been electrocuted, panic surging up her spine.

Nell sounds close. 

She glances back at Nathan, wide-eyed, but he's just standing there. Swaying a little. Chest rising and falling slow. 

They're still holding hands. Max peers around the corner of the gap and spots Nell, walking down the gravelly path with a hand raised to her eyes to block out the sun.

Max pulls Nathan after her by the wrist and then jogs like a lunatic back to the bench, stepping around it just as Nell comes close enough to see her.

"Hi!" It comes out shrill and overly loud and Max seriously contemplates running away.

Nell quirks an eyebrow. "Hey you two."

"We were, um," Max picks up the bag she left on the bench and slides it hurriedly up her arm. "On a walk. Looking at the flowers."

Nell didn't ask where they were.  _Way to go, Max_ , she thinks.  _You're a sorry excuse for a sleuthy detective._

"Right," Nell says, really slowly. She's staring at Nathan, who isn't helping Max whatsoever by standing there, catatonic, and saying  _absolutely nothing._

Max sends her a smile that she intends to be breezy, but knows ended up looking half-crazed.

Nell smirks in a way that's unsettling. "Right," she says again. "Listen, I'm going to make this about ninety per cent less awkward than it has to be, and pretend you guys were just chilling on the bench, having a little chat, and being totally and utterly  _platonic_." She looks like she's holding back a laugh. "Right, Max?"

"Um."

"Good. Glad you agree." She taps her watch. "Hour's up. I, uh, figure you already said your goodbyes."

Max is the approximate color of a large, shiny tomato as she scurries past Nell, doing a bad impression of a calm person. She doesn't even say goodbye to Nathan, who she imagines standing there in the gardens with that glazed expression until nightfall.

Nell  _smirks_ all the way back to the ward, lifting a hand in a lazy wave as Max all but bolts out the door.

 

* * *

 

 

She's only boarded the bus when her phone rings. 

She's pumping sweat, some weird post-adrenaline thing she figures. Warren would probably know how to explain it, there's some biological scientific explanation, but there’s no way she's going to  _ask_ Warren to decode what her rush of emotions after kissing Nathan Prescott means, because  _Jesus_ —

The bus is empty except for her, the driver, a texting mother and a sleeping baby, so she decides to answer the phone when she feels it vibrating. 

She brings it up to her ear without even looking at the name. 

"Hello?" she says breathlessly. 

"Hey, Max, it's Carmin." A pause. "Are you okay? Were you out on a run or something?"

"What? Oh, no, just— it's, um, hot?"

"Tell me about it. I hate the office dress code. Lawyers could totally wear shorts if we wanted to."

"Yeah. Haha. Right."

"Anyway, I didn't call to talk about the Saharan weather out there," Carmin goes on. Her voice drops to a hush. "Where are you right now?"

"I'm— I'm on a bus."

"Any chance you could take that bus to my office?" 

"Sure. I guess? Why?"

Carmin exhales. "It's about those phone records."

"Phone records?" Max's mind has drawn a blank. It feels all gooey and sticky, like glue.

"The ones between Berry and Dean. When Dean called him the night of his overdose?"

"Oh, right, yeah. What's up?"

"Come to my office. You'll find out."

"Wait, Carmin!" Max clutches the phone like she's grabbing Carmin's arm, stopping her from leaving. "What is it? Did you find something?"

"Yes. And you're going to want to hear it."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the lovely [ rnuulder](http://rnuulder.tumblr.com/) who has been waiting for the smooches since day one. ;D


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one completely got away from me, and ended up so long that I had to split it into two, so the next part shouldn't take too long. Endless thanks to the mighty Kittiara for her hard work!! <3 
> 
> We're about to wade into theory territory from now on, which I'm super excited about, and I hope you like the direction this is going. We're in the home stretch! Thank you all so much for your overwhelming support of this, you'll never know how much it means to me.
> 
> This chapter: Max continues her detective-ing to put Sean Prescott away, but Arcadia Bay is getting impatient... ;)

 

"God, I could really use a drink."

Carmin is stooped over her desk when Max arrives, flushed and breathless. After catching the town bus back to the Two Whales, she essentially had to half-jog the rest of the eight or so blocks to Silva & Christopher in this freakish, headache-inducing heat—heat that even the Sahara would be envious of. When she finally staggers through the lawyer's door, her clothes and hair are plastered damply to her skin with sweat, her legs feel like wobbly rubber, and she is pumped full of regret for skipping all of those gym classes. 

Eight blocks in fifteen minutes. After months of skyrocketing levels of laziness, her heart is banging in her chest, inaudibly screaming at her; although, Max is pretty sure that could also be because of the kiss. The kiss that she could still feel lingering against her lips throughout that eight block sprint. 

Overwhelmed with the subconscious attempt to keep her lazy heart from going into cardiac arrest, Max can only stare at the older woman for a moment, trying to catch her breath. When she finally does, she croaks out:

"What?"

"I said, I could really use a drink. A big one. With an umbrella."

Max notices, for the first time, that Carmin's office is not in its usual immaculate uniform. Paperwork is scattered messily across her imposing desk, made up of hefty stacks of folders, paper-clipped sheets and well thumbed-through leather journals. There are also some loose pieces of paper dotted here and there, standing out amongst the more official-looking paper trails. These sheets are covered with Carmin's own impatient handwriting, or have chunks of paragraphs that have been harshly highlighted, circled, or underlined aggressively, the pain cutting into the paper.

This is the big leagues, Max realises. No evidence boards here. Carmin would definitely have scoffed at the sparse assembling she and Chloe had done, rolled her eyes at the colored pushpins and the sheer amateur-ness of it all. But Chloe wouldn't have cared. If she was here, she'd probably sweep Carmin's 'professional' workings off of her desk, then stand on it, and declare their methods to be infinitely superior.

The office is quiet, past regular hours, and many of the employees were high-tailing it through the revolving doors when Max had come in, chattering amongst themselves and laying out plans for weekend barbecues. The sun doesn't even seem like it reaches Carmin's office. There's an odd shadowing, as if the dark refuses to give way.

"You found something?" Max asks, adjusting the strap of her bag from where it had been digging into her shoulder on the run. 

"God bless subpoenas," says Carmin. "And Berry surprised me. He didn't make a fuss."

"Was he mad? Oh, God, I didn't even  _think_." A wave of hot panic washes across her insides. "I hope he didn't think I was trying to be sneaky. He obviously knows I must be working with you, now."

"But you were sneaky," Carmin retorts, looking vaguely amused. "No shame in it, Max. It's how you get things done. But, listen, I wouldn't worry. It was clear to me that he didn't even consider you were involved. He's... associated himself with Mr. Prescott plenty in the past, and as a result, also with me. He knows how I work, and he knows not to ask questions if I ask him for something out of the blue." 

Max exhales. "So...?"

" _So_ , it's fine. I'm sure he'll figure it out when he's asked to testify, but don't worry about that yet. It's all going to come out then anyway, right?"

"But—"

"You're  _not_ going to look like you've been double-crossing the Prices," Carmin says, sounding mildly irked that she even has to clarify this. "That's what you're worried about, right?"

Max bites her lip as way of answer.

Carmin makes an affirmative hum. "See? Remember, I read people for a living." She sits back into her chair and rolls her neck around. Max hears several, small telltale pops of stiff tiredness. "What you're doing is all in their best interests. Their daughter's trial is going to be used to take down Oregon's biggest dirty secret, I think they'll be pretty satisfied with that as Chloe's legacy."

Max swallows the words back, and they taste like a bad pill. "Are you really sure? I mean, all they want, all they— they  _deserve_ is for Nathan to be held accountable."

Carmin shoots her a queer look. "Didn't you say this was also about getting Nathan a lighter sentence?"

"It is, but..."

"You're running circles around yourself, Max," Carmin warns. 

It's more like a brutal boxing match. Or a tug of war, the worst kind, when you're knee-deep in sticky mud and your hands keep slipping on the rope. Nathan, Chloe, Nathan, Chloe. For Joyce and David to be happy, Nathan must be miserable, and vice versa. There doesn't seem to be a compromise, and Max can't help but think it's on purpose. Is this another of Arcadia's chosen black-and-white "destinies"?. One, not the other, never both. She has to choose.  _She_  has to, and if she doesn't, if she grits her teeth and fights and  _refuses_ , Arcadia does it for her: and  its choice is usually worse. A never-ending kaleidoscope of ’ _Sorry, you can't fix this. Pick your side and stick to it_ .’ It sometimes feels like it's there, breathing down her neck, presenting Nathan's fate in one hand and Joyce's in the other, saying, ’ _Just these two, we can work with. One or the other. Choose. Go on, choose._ ’

She recalls what Ms. Grant had said about the ancestors, and whenever she does, she gets a fizzy sensation in the pit of her stomach that eventually climbs all the way up her spinal chord. If they are really watching things, if they are really trying to guide her with their ‘ _one or the other_ ’ choices’, well, Max can only detest them. Really. Holding onto a vision for a perfect world, using a black-and-white system in a reality that is and always was a great, glowing gray... it makes her want to scream. Makes her want to grab Arcadia by its sandy edges and shake sense into it. 

"Max," Carmin's voice pulls her back, out from frothy waves. "If we get this right, it helps everyone. So relax. You're doing fine."

Max nods weakly. She sinks all of her weight down into the leather chair, feeling where the sweat has gathered beneath her knees. She takes a deep breath and tastes the smell of coffee and printer ink. She tries to make sense of the mountain of paperwork before her, but it all blurs. 

"So," she says, "what did you find?"

Carmin sweeps apart a few stacks of paperwork, finding just one sheet of paper at the bottom. She slides it across the table. 

Max's first impression is that it's all a bewildering mess of figures and dates. A few moments pass, and that doesn't really change. Her confusion only grows. It's some kind of list, organised in columns, numbered in complex sets with dates and times. 

"Anderson Berry's complete list of incoming and outgoing calls for the month of April, 2010." 

Max shifts closer, trying to make sense of it. Carmin has highlighted half a dozen columns at random intervals down the page, the information coated in neon yellow and jumping out at Max instantly. She still doesn't know what to make of it, except to silently note that Carmin has highlighted the same numbers as they occur, again and again, over the month. 

"That's Dean's cellphone number," Carmin points out. "Christ knows I had that memorised." 

There are two distinct sections of columns for incoming and outgoing calls, and slowly, things become clearer. The highlighted numbers jostle their way through the anonymous others, the unimportant numbers, and Max is quickly able to pinpoint when, in each column, it's Dean calling, and when Officer Berry had called him back. 

"For the first half of April, Berry calls Dean sporadically, on these dates." Carmin says, tapping the corresponding information with her pointer finger. "Nothing to see there. It was normal. Berry was just calling to check up on him from time to time." 

Max nods, absorbing it all. Beads of perspiration are still breaking out across her forehead; from the adrenaline of the run or the adrenaline of this, she's not quite sure. She wipes them away impatiently with the back of her hand. 

"But here," Carmin's finger comes down firmly on two highlighted columns close to the end of the sheet, the end of the month. "Is our  _evidence_ , Miss Caulfield."

Max leans in, eyes raking across the numbers. "I see it! The date fits. Dean did call Officer Berry the night he overdosed."

It feels like something worth smiling about, a step in the right direction. Max lifts her head and sends Carmin a grin, expecting to see a similarly triumphant one aimed right back at her. 

But Carmin's not smiling. She is tight-lipped and grim. 

Max frowns. "What's wrong?"

"There's... more."

"More?"

"More. As in, I found more, and... it kind of threw me. And I ended up wanting a stiff drink. Or several."

Max's heart jumps in her chest. "What is it? Can I see what you found?"

"Look at this." Carmin gestures then, to a highlighted line in incoming calls, dated the same night, and coming just a few minutes after the first call. "Seem funny to you?"

It takes a moment for Max to organise the numbers, to take them apart and understand them and figure out their significance to see what Carmin sees. Her eyes scan the whole line three or four times, and when she sees it, it swells up in her chest. 

"There's...  _another call_ ," Max says. 

"Bingo," Carmin says, but for some reason she still doesn't look happy about it. "After this first call, after Berry said he hung up on Dean, Dean called him back."

The numbers blur as Max's brain works. The neon runs.

"Officer Berry didn't say anything about a second call," Max argues, frowning. "He said Dean only called him once that night." 

"Right. I thought the same. And then, I got this hunch."

"A hunch?"

Carmin gestures airily, as if Max should instantly know what that entails. "My hunch was: Berry isn't the type of guy to ignore a phone call, especially one from a kid like Dean. Regardless of whether he hung up or not, he would have answered again. He would have seen it as giving Dean another chance."

Max scrunches her brow, her brain still trying to work its cogs through the fuzzy heat swirling in it since she left the hospital.

"Are you saying that Officer Berry lied? That he lied about only getting one call from Dean?

"No, actually." Carmin pushes herself out from the desk and stands up with purpose. She starts searching for something beneath the nearest cluster of papers. "I thought about it some more. Tried to put myself in Berry's shoes, tried to hear that phone ringing. And then, it occurred to me..." She pauses in her search briefly, sending Max a smile that is strangely weak. "What if Berry turned his phone  _off_ , right after he hung up on Dean?" 

Max isn't exactly sure where she's going with this, but isn't about to say so. 

Carmin, reading her as usual, notices her confusion and sighs. "Berry hangs up on Dean, who, it's been established, was as high as a kite. It's late, Berry's pissed and tired of dealing with this entitled kid, right? So he turns his phone off, throws it somewhere, forgets about it."

"And...?"

" _And_ , I had another hunch. I did some digging around in regards to that second call, the one that went to a turned off phone."

"That's some pretty good lawyer-ing."

"It goddamn is, because that hunch, led me to  _this_."

Carmin spins towards her computer. She clicks the mouse and waits. Max sits there, a little dumbstruck in the silence, wondering what she's supposed to understand. 

She jumps, startled, as a sharp and static-edged beep suddenly echoes around the room. The noise is bizarre, old-sounding, and not that clear.

"Max," Carmin says, "Dean left a voicemail."

Max's heart plummets into her stomach. 

"No way."

She barely has any time to prepare herself, to brace herself for what might come, for what  _is_ coming, before the beeping cuts off and the voicemail buzzes back to life and— 

She hadn't thought about this possibility. She can't register how it makes her feel, as the first words jostle into her ears.

Dean Prescott's voice sounds tinnily from the computer.

" _L_ _ook, please. Please! O-Officer Berry... I really need you to call me back. It's important._ "

The line is bad, like the service had been shitty, but it's more than that, too. Dean's voice is clearly addled by something - alcohol, presumably. His voice sloshes with it, watery at its cracked edges. It's not how she imagined he would sound. Having looked at his pictures, Max had entertained some ridiculous but nevertheless plausible ideas that Dean had talked like some kind of celebrity. A voice that had been strong and charismatic, as commanding as his father's but without the ice. As it fills Max's ears, sending shivers shooting across her neck and down her spine, she thinks that he might have sounded like that once. His voice sounds like it's gone a few rounds with throat-scorching shots and lost every time. 

A sudden noise in the background of the recording makes her jump so violently, her hand flies to clutch her chest, to prevent her heart from pounding out through her ribs. It feels like it might. The noise, she thinks, is a car door slamming, but she can't be sure. Dean's talking again before she can focus on it. 

" _I need to talk to you_." He swallows, and his throat clicks wetly over the line. " _PLEASE. It's my father. It's— It's my father._ "

Carmin's eyes have rounded, flat and sad. She is staring through Max, staring into nothing at all. 

" _Please turn your phone back o-on, oh God. Listen, you have to meet me at - I'm, I'm at Blackwell. Please come."_

Max isn't sweating anymore. Instead, she is flooded cold all the way through, doused with ice water. She scrubs a nervous hand across her arm and finds all the hair standing up, prickly and alert. 

" _You don't know, you, you don't know what I had to..._ " He trails off, sloppily hiccuping, and Max hears an incomprehensible thump in the background. " _Please_ ," his voice has gone brittle, " _He's gonna find me._   _I'm at Blackwell. If you don't c-come, I'll have to_ —"

There is an awful, too-high and too prolonged beep, and it cuts him off. The beep that signals the end of time you have to speak for a voicemail. And like that, Dean is gone, ripped away again, torn from this moment in time. 

The heavy, hanging silence that follows screams in her ears. Max's chest is aching, scrubbed out with bleach. She feels sick.

"Goddamn kid," Carmin says roughly.

Max raises her eyes, speechless. The backs of them are stinging, threatening to glaze over wet and pour down.

"I've listened to it a few times now," Carmin adds. Her tone changes, becomes fierce. "I knew that kid, Max. I  _knew_ him. And I still didn't recognise how bad it was. His addiction." She turns her head and stares with slow blinks at the computer. "He talked to me. He confided in me, about a lot of things. I was as close a friend to that family as you could get. And I let him down." 

Max inhales shakily. "It's not your fault, Carmin."

"Oh, but it is." She sighs heavily, for so long that Max worries she might pass out. "Remember? I read people. Or I'm supposed to, anyway. I should have spotted it earlier, his using. But you never think the golden child has problems, do you?" She shakes her head sorrowfully. "Until they do, and it's too late." 

Max thinks of Dean, of his reputation, strolling around Blackwell with a smile on his face and a warm word for everyone he encountered. Maybe he charmed teachers with drugs in his pocket, maybe he slipped something into his locker for an after-swim energy booster when no one was looking. Maybe there were times when the lights in his eyes dimmed, but people were too enamoured by the rest of him to notice. She thinks of his cries for help ignored, constantly. How Sean must have pulled him into the sterile world of the Dark Room and promised him glory, or took advantage of his son's spongy, drug-addled brain to convince him that he needed to do this, or else Sean wouldn't be proud of him, or else he'd be a family disgrace. 

He must have been lonely when he died. Afraid. 

"That's all I wanted to show you," says Carmin. "It's solid evidence."

Max searches for her voice, buried quiet at the back of her throat. "Will it be enough?" 

"There's still more we can look for. There are always more leads." Carmin reaches out then, and pats Max's shoulder somewhat awkwardly, unused to affection. "But, look, you did good."

Max sits there, her heart bobbing around unattached amongst her ribcage. She tries to imagine the voicemail being played in court, to a rapt audience, to the Prescotts, to... Nathan.

She casts a nervous glance towards the computer, as if Dean is there in some physical form, reading her thoughts and silently agreeing with the small acknowledgement that is beginning to bloom. 

"Carmin," Max blurts, "Nathan needs to know about this." 

"Really," Carmin says, and for a moment, that's all she says. 

"He doesn't know what really happened to Dean, about how deep his ties with the Dark Room and Jefferson seem to go. And if playing that voicemail in court is the first time he learns about it... it's not fair." And Max couldn't do that to him. She won't do it. 

"Nathan is emotional," Carmin says, with a disapproving look, like this is something dangerous and abnormal. "We can't risk him getting upset and saying anything to Sean."

"But wouldn't it be  _worse_ for him to find out in the court?" Max counters. "It'll look shady on your part. Lawyers aren't supposed to keep things from their clients." 

Carmin doesn't answer. She sits down and purses her lips. 

"We need to be united on this," Max adds. "And hiding shit like this from him is the total  _opposite_ of united. Plus, he'll be able to help us if he knows. Whatever he's been holding back, the things he's been too scared to say about his father or about the Dark Room, he wouldn't be so nervous about it because he'd want to see his father put behind  _bars._ "  

Carmin hums. "I did say that he knows a lot more than he's pretending."

"And he'll tell me," Max says. "But he needs to know we're on his side."

Carmin stares at her, her eyes full of soft curiosity. The moment hangs, and then, she takes a sheet of paper from her pile and says, "It's your decision. He's your friend, and I'll remain neutral on the matter." She passes Max the paper, covered in typed writing, stamped with something official. "This is the transcript of that voicemail. If you decide to, show it to Nathan."

Max opens her mouth, closes it. Swallows. The choice has already been made by something in her gut, way back when the voicemail had begun. She's going to tell him. She folds the transcript and slips it into her bag, exhaling slowly. 

"I'm giving it to you with the understanding you'll bring it back," Carmin says, "whether you show him or not." 

Max nods. She feels the silent acknowledgement that this meeting is over, and she needs to go, to try and get her head together. She pitches herself forward to the following week, and tries to imagine herself telling Nathan about Dean and the Dark Room. His reaction is a blurry, fuzzy thing, impossible to make out. Impossible to predict. 

"Is there anything else I should check out?" Max asks, standing up. 

"I can't help but feel like we should check out Dean's movements that night. What the hell is that janitor's name? Steve?"

"Samuel."

"Right, him. Well, I'd suggest asking him if he remembers anything about that night on campus. He's usually skulking around. Find out if he saw Dean at all that night."

"Okey-dokey. I'll do my best." 

"If he doesn't know anything, you could always try Wells. But good luck, that guy never tells me anything." 

"I don't think I should go around asking the Principal about Dean Prescott," Max says anxiously. "After all, Sean Prescott practically has him wrapped around his pinkie finger."

Carmin hums. "You're probably right. But if the opportunity arises, be vague." 

They said their goodbyes and Max leaves the office, clutching the strap of her bag a little too tightly. The sun is warm on her face, and she squints through bars of sunlight as she begins the long concrete trek back to the nearest bus stop.

Her head is banging. It feels too full. It'd be cool if she could just screw the top off and empty out the waste, the thoughts and feelings cluttering up her skull and distracting her, but sadly, this isn't a sci-fi movie. She presses the heel of her hand hard against the space between her eyebrows and sighs, longing for a shower and a softer, decidedly unsweaty change of clothes. 

She's half-considering calling Nathan by the third block. But that's desperate, isn't it? She's not trying to be desperate, she's just trying to figure out whether or not she freaked him out. His look of vegetation as she'd left the hospital hadn't exactly been the greatest confidence boost, and the more she thinks about it, the more paranoid she gets that she's  _seriously_ screwed things up. 

She'd enjoyed it. Hadn't he? By the fourth block, Max is convinced she's a bad kisser. By the fifth, she has decided she's probably an okay one, but it still hadn't been cool to throw herself at him like that. Oh God, she had thrown herself at him, hadn't she? She's always been bad at reading signs.  _Do_ boys even throw out signs? Chloe would know. Chloe would know exactly what to say to her—

Chloe. Would she be pissed or bewildered or laughing her ass off that Max had just kissed Nathan Prescott? 

Maybe a mix of both, knowing Chloe.

The bus stop is empty when she arrives, not nearly as sweaty but still flushed, and the bus still has a few minutes left to come. She stands by the little bench in the bus shelter, with its cracked old paint and the gum stuck to the underside. She notices some graffiti, written at a slant going up the wall. The letters are large, black, and for some reason, she can't tear her eyes away from them.

_Et in Arcadia ego_

Max has definitely heard that, or read it, somewhere else. Strange. Out of interest, and also to distract herself from her own consuming thoughts, she takes out her camera and snaps a photo of it. 

 

* * *

 

 

The sunshine rapidly dissolves into rain over the coming days, so abruptly that the stark change in weather makes the news again. Max spends the better part of Thursday morning consoling Dana, who has had to cancel her pre-finals beach party, and then consoling Warren, who had taken to doing his studying outside because of the apparent study-related marvels of Vitamin D exposure, and seemed to be seriously considering suing the sun. A sure sign his brain is already fried. 

The grey, near-constant overcast sky once again casts a miserable hue over the campus and it feels like winter all over again. Max had always pictured her last few weeks at Blackwell soaked in laughter and parties and fervent memory-making, not curled up in her dorm most nights trying to read the same paragraph of World History over and over again, while torrential rain batters the windows. 

She's glad when, on Friday, Joyce invites her over for dinner. It's a welcome break from toasted pop tarts at midnight, and a chance to get away from the suffocating tightness of the dormitories, which actually seems to be getting worse, not better, as the end of her time at Blackwell comes to an end. Someday, she thinks she'll miss the dorms, the school, but it's so hard to make the most of it. 

Joyce insists she brings someone, and Kate ends up more than happy to tag along. They manage to drag Warren out of his self-imposed studying exile for a ride to the house, but Max just ends up watching him worriedly from the passenger seat as he stares out at the road with a groggy, almost vacant expression. 

The third time the car weaves, Max grips the edge of her seat and gulps. "Are you sure you don't want to come for dinner with us?" she squeaks. "No offence, but you're in full zombie mode."

Warren blinks slowly, oblivious.  

" _Warren?_ "

He bolts upright, hands tightening on the steering wheel, wide-awake. "What?"

In the backseat, Kate is gripping her seatbelt for dear life. "Max, I feel like I should pray for our safety."

Another slow blink. "What?"

"Oh, jesus. Pull over." Max makes agitated grabby-hands for the wheel. 

Predictably, Warren starts again. "Pull over? Why?"

"Because zombies shouldn't drive cars," Max retorts. 

Warren's car, still beat-up from its recent fight with an unsuspecting deer, chugs tiredly over to the side of the road. They're surrounded by thick forest, blackened with rain, and the wheels make sloshing sounds as they slow to a stop. 

Max climbs out, holding her bag over her head for pathetically minimal coverage from the beating downpour as she jogs around the car, sliding into the driver's seat. She glances in the mirror at Kate, who instantly appears ten times more relieved to have her behind the wheel. 

The cold splash of the rain appears to have woken Warren up slightly. He rubs his face hard after clicking his seatbelt into place, groaning. "Sorry, you're right, that was fucking dangerous."

"I should take your licence away," Max quips, starting up the engine again. 

"I'd let you. Man. It's no wonder I hit that deer, huh?"

Kate gasps. "You killed a _deer?_ "

"It wasn't my fault! I mean, I guess it was, but - the thing came out of nowhere! I was completely defenceless. Have you seen this hunk of crap?" He nudges Max gently. "It was on this road, too, so be careful. My parents won't cash out for another fix-up." 

"Warren," Max says firmly, "have dinner with us."

"No, no, really, it's fine. I'm not exactly the life of party right now. I'll go home, take a shower, finish that Science cramming--"

" _No._ " Kate and Max both exclaim it in unison.

Warren frowns. "But--"

Max silences him with a glare. "I'm forbidding you from studying for the rest of the night. I'll know if you do, too. I have Warren Graham psychic abilities."

Warrens sighs. "I'm outnumbered by girls. And not in a good way."

They make it to Cedar Avenue with zero deer murders, much to Max's relief, and surprisingly zero instances of Warren falling into a coma from exhaustion. Before they go up to the house, Kate forces him to pace back-and-forth for five minutes in the icy rain to make sure he's woken up, and they stand there eyeing his driving carefully for the entire length of time it takes for him to pull out of the driveway. 

"I'm worried about him," Kate murmurs. "He's so smart. He doesn't have to push himself this hard." 

"There's no talking to him when he's like that," Max says. "You remember Winter finals. He practically took his books to the shower." 

They splash through the soppy puddles on the way up to the front door. The cold has started to seep through Max's clothes and she shivers, teeth chattering. She glances over at Kate, who is staring up at the blue lines near the roof, where William had started to paint and then never finished. Something tugs inside her chest, at the soft, sad glaze that passes over Kate's expression. 

Chloe and Kate would have been really good friends, if they'd gotten to know each other, if they'd had the opportunity to just sit down on a normal, mundane Arcadia day and just talk. Kate would have admired Chloe's independence, her spirit, while Max can almost picture Chloe finding Kate's quiet, thoughtful demeanour endlessly endearing. 

Just another lost opportunity. 

Joyce opens the door with a scorch-marked oven mitt on, and immediately gasps at the sight of them. "Girls, you're drowned! Get in here before you catch the cold of your lives."

Max's muscles, braced against the cold, sag and relax as she steps into the warmth of the house. She glances down apologetically at the water dripping off of her and onto the floor, but Joyce doesn't seem to care, pulling her in for one of her tight, heart-lifting, maternal hugs. She hugs Kate too, for a moment or two too long, Max observes, pressing her hands tight into Kate's delicate shoulder blades. 

"It's so nice to meet you properly, Kate," Joyce says when they pull apart. "It's great to finally have you over for some chow."

"Thank you for inviting me, Mrs. Price," Kate smiles. "Your home is lovely."

"You're too sweet. And please, call me Joyce, honey." Joyce returns the smile, patting her shoulder affectionately. 

They move into the living room, and Max feels a ball in her stomach at the sight laid out before her. Joyce has set the table with the best china, the cups and dishes that Max has only ever had when she and her parents would come over for Thanksgiving, or somebody's birthday. The nostalgia floods her. The air is warm with the smell of tenderly-cooked meat, simmering nearby in the oven, and the steamed smell of vegetables. Her stomach rumbles in anticipation. 

Other than the tidy, caring way that Joyce has prepared the table, there are small signs of the disarray that has pervaded the Price home since October. Signs that she probably should be used to by now, but they still make her feel unsettled. Half-empty and empty bottles clinking around in the overflowing trash, food stains or crumbs on the couch that Joyce would have always cleaned by now. Crooked paintings, cylinder-shaped marks on the wooden table from somebody not bothering to grab a coaster. It's subtle things, Max has always found, that reveal the most. 

Kate is looking at the framed photographs on the wall by the kitchen, hands clasped against her chest. Max finds Joyce in the kitchen, stirring an assortment of vegetables around a large pipingly-hot pot of boiling water.

"Was that Warren I saw dropping you off?" says Joyce. "Was he... walking around outside in the rain?"

Max smiles. "Kate made him, he was almost falling asleep at the wheel. This finals preparation is kind of destroying him."

" _Kind of?_ " Joyce chuckles. "The boy looks ready to collapse." She tears her eyes away from the stove and moves them to Max. "I hope  _you_ aren't stressing yourself out too much, Max."

Max hums guiltily. "No worries there. I've... not exactly been in the right mood to open a book these days."

Joyce nods in understanding, her eyes rounding. "I bet. But don't you worry about it, you've always been such an intelligent girl. You're going to make your parents proud."

"I hope you're right," Max says, not believing the older woman for one second. She turns and glances towards the table, noticing that it's been neatly set for four. "Is David here?"

"He's in the garage, working on that beloved car of his, but yes, he'll be joining us for dinner." Joyce leans out from the stove and peers around the corner, noticing Kate, still engrossed in the photos of Chloe, of her childhood, of her past happiness. Joyce inclines her head in Kate's direction, and drops her voice. "How is she?"

"So much better," Max tells her, smiling. "It's amazing. She's back to the Kate she used to be."

"God, am I glad to hear that. That's really wonderful. When I found out about that - that  _Dark Room_ , I was sick to my stomach. I never thought Arcadia Bay could ever hold such horrible evil. But with all of that evil, I look at you and I can see the good. I see it in your support of Kate, and in your support of us." 

"Oh, Joyce..."

"I mean it, Max." Joyce reaches out and hugs her again. "We wouldn't be getting through any of this without you." 

If Max's guilt is a river, right now, it has burst its banks.

Joyce pulls away from her, and Max suddenly feels so cold and hollow that the feeling takes hold of her actions. She wants to shrivel up and disappear. She has lain awake through endless nights, coming up with different scenarios in which she could tell David and Joyce the truth, maybe even tell them everything. She ruminates until her brain actually feels close to overheating, until there is a tangible pressure at the base of her skull, making her head spin. She has tried out sentences, made up scenes and replayed them over and over. In the end, she still doesn't know what the hell to do. How they will react. In moments like this, standing in Joyce's bright kitchen and feeling safe from the rainstorm outside, it's difficult to imagine they could ever be okay with it.

She is pushed forward by an invisible force within her, and startles both Joyce  _and_ herself. She throws her arms back around Joyce's middle and holds on like the woman will disappear, trying to press her apologies, the endless flow of apologies, the lies and secrets she has no choice but to keep, through the soft material of Joyce's blouse. To breathe them into her heart and make them settle, because at this point, that seems the only plausible option. The words never seem to come. 

Joyce laughs softly, rubbing her back as if Max is a small child, come crying for her mother in the middle of the night. "Sweetie, what's the matter?"

"Nothing, just..."

After all of these years, her perfume is still the same. Fruity, familiar. She is struck by vivid memories of Chloe taking her into her parents room to play with Joyce's make-up, or how the same scent would always fill the car when she had picked she and Chloe up from elementary school. It smells like safety, like family. And it's never hurt until now.

"Honey?"

"Sorry, I don't mean to be weird." She steps back, rubbing the back of her neck anxiously. She's sweating, the culpability a hot tide. "Just, thank you."

"You're family, Max. You always will be. I want you to remember that." 

There's something strange in her voice. Max barely catches it before Joyce turns away from her again, humming a familiar tune too-high over the boiling vegetables. She had hesitated, Max thinks. Looked like she had more to say. Before Max can poke and prod, Kate moves into the kitchen to join them. 

"Excuse me," she says politely, "but could I please use your restroom?"

"Of course you can!" Joyce seems unused to the politeness, her eyebrows raising. "The one downstairs is broken, but Max can show you to the one upstairs." 

Max smiles. "No worries." 

Kate follows her out into the hall. There is a stack of piled up, unread mail on the table by the door. Some of the return addresses are stamped with local newspaper titles, obviously seeking an interview. Some of the letters are so old, the paper has browned or powdered with a light layer of dust. From outside the garage door, Max can hear the sounds of metallic scraping and the clunk of tools.

It's difficult to have gotten to the stage she had been at with David before, the stage of mutual respect, maybe even admiration, maybe even actual friendship. It's hard, now, to go back David's cold stare, his gruff questioning or, contrastingly, his lack of words at all. He never got to know how Chloe really did care about him deep down, how she even came to understand him. The fact that Max can probably never tell him that... it aches. He'd never believe her, knows nothing about her aside from the fact she was best friends with his stepdaughter once. 

It's like having a cure for somebody's worst ailment, but having to hold it back. She wonders, despairingly, if it's always going to be like this. 

At the top of the stairs, Kate pauses and glances back down towards the garage. "Mr. Madsen's here?" 

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"Of course. It's just.. weird, I guess. The last time I talked to him was Chloe's funeral, and the time before that, he'd been following me around campus,  _watching_ me. It's just a little strange to be having dinner with him now."

"He wasn't after you. He was just suspicious of Mr. Jefferson," Max blurts. "And of the Vortex Club parties."

"He was?" 

"His following you around was definitely creepy, and he shouldn't have done it, but it was his way of trying to look out for you and for everybody else at Blackwell. He always did care, Kate."

Kate is giving her a strange look, one that makes Max's face heat. She shrugs quickly.

"That's what I think, at least."

"Oh." Kate mulls it over. "That does make sense. Still." She smiles gently. "He's not the easiest person to talk to."

"Oh, I agree. But don't be nervous. Talk to me, talk to Joyce. Or don't say anything at all. It's just awesome to have you here, Kate."

"Thanks, Max." Kate gives her a grateful smile and then looks around. "It must be quiet here, without Chloe." 

Max manages a smile. "Do you want to see her room? Or, what's left of it, I guess."

Kate nods, in that gentle way of hers, in that unhurried and warm patience that Max finds herself super glad to be around right now. "I'd like to, but only if it's okay."

Chloe's room smells like dust. An invisible cog in Max's chest is tightened, because this must be what moving on feels like. No, she thinks, wincing as the thought comes. David and Joyce aren't moving on, at all. Maybe it's getting worse. It's not like Joyce to keep this room dusty, not like her to keep the curtains shut during the day. Does she think that she's keeping Chloe in here by not coming in? As if treading over the scuffed floorboards would do some great assault to her ghost. 

But no, something's wrong here. The room is bare and blank and cold. This isn't like them, they wouldn't just leave the room empty like this. Max takes in a deep breath, confusion filling her, and that's when she smells it, underneath the dust. New paint. And she looks up, looks around. The posters are gone, stripped from the walls. Chloe's scribbled words have been painted over, erased. The walls are no longer a soft cream, the cream they always were, the cream that Max would wake up to after sleepovers. Now, they are light blue. It looks pretty against the wood panelling, and the shade usually calms her, but suddenly, all Max can feel is... despair. 

It comes over her like a shock. A douse of ice water. 

It's like Chloe never even had this room.

"Max?" Kate, ever intuitive, must have spotted the droop in her shoulders. "Are you okay?"

Max stares at the infinite empty space, her eyes wide, and pushes with everything she has inside to picture Chloe in this room. She tries to project the thoughts in front of her, make them real. She tries to see Chloe, dancing around with the stereo on high volume, blue hair flicking with an elegance that no one ever expected her to have. She sees Chloe pulling perfectly good clothes out of her closet, throwing them impatiently over her shoulder in favour of the same pair of ripped jeans. Chloe sits at her desk, hand propping up her chin, tired but content eyes scanning news articles, tour dates of her favourite bands, and reading nerdy science forums that she always liked to pretend she had no interest in. 

Chloe is at her window, stretched out along the sill, smoking and gazing out at the roofs of houses and the distant line of the bay, hating this town and wanting to understand it, all at the same time. Chloe pads barefoot across the room with headphones in, texting Max, furiously waving her hands in the air to get rid of the smoke, because David has a bloodhound nose for these things. Chloe obsessively googling Rachel's name, in desperate search of anything new, any lead, something she missed before, though she knows she couldn't have. Chloe not coming out of this room for hours. Joyce bringing a plate of food up, David stopping awkwardly outside the shut door at various intervals, caught between wanting to attempt conversation and wanting to head down the stairs, already knowing those attempts would be rebuffed.

Chloe looking at the lighthouse. She passes by Max now, yawning, loose change and ignored parking tickets packed into her back pockets. She leans across the desk, pulls the curtains back, lifts the window and brings in the bitter air, the gust of breezy rain. Breathes life again back into this room, a room that Max knows as well as her own. 

She stares hard at the far wall, where Chloe's bed used to be, where the American flag had always hung somewhat sarcastically across the window, so strange to see that same window uncovered now. She stares at where they have painted over her and Max's marks in the wall, their height measurements, taken studiously by William every six months or so. She stares at all of the places they have painted over Chloe and Max feels tears, sharp ones, prick the back of her eyes. She stares hard as her vision begins to blur and tries to will Chloe back into being. She's twisted time in her hands before like it was made of rope, surely, she should be able to do this. Because this isn't fair, and this isn't right, and Chloe didn't deserve to die the way she did, or die at all. 

"Max?" Kate's voice comes loud and concerned in her ear, and it's when she feels hands warm on her shoulders that she's realised she's sunk down onto the floor, and the tears are falling. How did she notice? 

Kate's arms are around her, tight, reassuring, holding her to Earth. 

She's not cried properly like this. Never like this. She loses control, scaring herself, and definitely scaring Kate, who tightens her grip even more, as if Max could sob herself through the floor. The cries choke her, catch in her throat and make her hiccup. She can't see through the streaming tears, but she can feel how hot her face is, how the tears land sticky, and she can still smell the fucking paint. 

"It's okay, Max," Kate says softly, voice brittle, and she's crying then, too. Both of them utter messes, clutching each other, faces and necks damp, and Max doesn't even know why Kate's crying. She feels even worse for making her, and tries to apologise, but all that comes out is another spluttered half-sob. 

Kate just squeezes her harder, a silent acknowledgement. She smells of soft wool and tea and Max holds on for dear life. She peels her eyes open and half-tricks herself into expecting to see Chloe there, but the room is as empty as ever.  

"Don't stop crying, okay?" Kate whispers. "Get it all out." 

Snot is dripping off the end of her nose and Max wishes she cared enough to feel disgusted for making a blubbering mess of herself in front of Kate. She startles slightly at the sudden sound of heavy footsteps, beating up the stairs like gunfire. 

David arrives in the doorway, hands braced either side of it and flushed, wide-eyed like he expected a wild animal to be prowling around up here. Max turns her head slowly and makes mortifying, half-sobbing eye contact, still huddled on the floor in the middle of the room with Kate wrapped around her like a security blanket.

David's moustache twitches, and Max watches as his expression flips from baffled to frantic. He shifts awkwardly, clearly unused to the situation of a teenager bawling in his stepdaughter's old room. She can nearly see the words get lodged in his throat, and watch as he struggles to come up with new ones. 

Thankfully, for all of them, Joyce appears, jostling past him with urgency. "Oh, Max! Kate—" She sinks down to her knees and her hands fly to whatever part of Max they can reach, her lower arms, her clammy hands, her trembling back. She sweeps her hands over Max's shoulders as if to smooth out all the sadness. "Oh, honey, it's alright. You're fine. It's alright—"

She thinks that David leaves, and her ears confirm it a moment later, the sounds of his footsteps, slower now, a little weary, heading back down the stairs. She presumes he's shot back to the garage where all emotions are safely locked up tight, but to her surprise, and also to her quiet relief, she hears the click of him turning on the kettle downstairs in the kitchen. 

Joyce must hear it, too, because she sits back on her hunches and sweeps Max's damp hair out of her eyes, and says, "We need tea. Come on, come back downstairs."

A few minutes later, after a much-needed trip to the bathroom so that Max could splash cold water across her face and sober up, the four of them are installed at Joyce's kitchen table, the oven off and the dinner slowly drying inside. Max feels the tremendous lurch of guilt that always comes after she cries in front of people, knowing she's ruined what should have been a peaceful evening meal, but Chloe's room - it had shocked her, shaken her. She didn't expect to open that door and find her...  _erased_ like that. 

She's still sniffling, Kate next to her, passing her tissues in case the dam breaks again. It's not completely silent, at least, the radio in the corner is playing a smooth jazz station at soothing low volume. Still, Max's chest feels awful. Scrubbed out with steel wool. Her eyes feel swollen, puffy and tender to the touch, and her breaths rattle shakily down her sore throat. 

She thinks, in the midst of it all, that she feels a shred of something lighter. Some kind of relief, as brief as she knows it probably is. It's like her esophagus physically shoved all of the tight, tense whatever building up there out of her, onto the floor where it withered up and disappeared. Her legs feel wobbly, her chest strangely loose, like one too-deep breath could dislodge most of her organs. 

Joyce's eyes are fixed on her, radiating with a mixture of concern and... guilt? Max knows it well enough by now to recognise it in someone else. It looks the same on Joyce as it probably does on her. It softens her eyes in the wrong way, pulls the corners of her mouth down without her realisation. 

David, across the table, still looks deeply uncomfortable and Max would laugh, if she felt able. He clears his throat brusquely, and awkwardly slides a sleeve of cookies across the table towards her. 

Max takes one gratefully, Kate following. The cookie goes down hard amongst all the dryness in her mouth, but it helps. The chocolate is sweeter than usual. She tries to smile at him but it wobbles weak on her face, and his returning attempt isn't much better. 

"Drink your tea, Max," Joyce says gently. "It'll soothe you, steady your head." 

Max sips but the tea is still too hot, burning her upper lip, swollen from the sobs. "S-Sorry," she mumbles. "I didn't mean to— to freak out, I—"

"Max Caulfield, don't you dare apologise," Joyce shoots back instantly. She looks away from Max, as if ashamed, and sighs. "It's my fault. I should have told you about... about what we did to Chloe's room. Of course you would have went in there. It must have been so... overwhelming." 

"I don't understand," Max gets out, her breath slowly beginning to return to normal. "W-Why would you paint over everything? I know it's totally your house and your decision, but..."

David looks over at Joyce, as if asking for silent permission to speak. Joyce shakes her head, and sits forward herself. 

She reaches for Max's hand across the table and holds it tightly between her fingers. Her tone of voice is one that Max rarely hears. The last time she heard it was five years ago, saying goodbye before she left for Seattle. 

"We didn't have a choice," says Joyce.

Max squints at her, eyes still burning a bit. "What?"

Joyce's grip tightens, right as the blow of the words come. "We've... David and I have..." She glances over at him, as if for help, but his face has taken on a grimness. "...We've decided to move, Max. Not now, of course, but... soon. After the trial is over."

Max waits. She realises she's serious.

"We've been thinking about Idaho and, recently, we found a house to rent that we really like. We want to lease this house, but to do it, we needed to paint Chloe's room." 

The words feel strange. Fuzzy around the edges, like she's hearing them from a distance. She's aware of Kate squeezing her hand under the table, but in a detached way. Her skin doesn't feel like her skin.

"Max, this wasn't an impulsive decision," Joyce adds gently. There are tears in her eyes too, threatening to spill over. "We've been struggling with staying in Arcadia. After— after everything that happened, all of the pain we've gone through and will always have to go through, we think we need to get away from it. When I'm here, in the diner or at every corner I turn, all I'm reminded of is that pain. First, William and now, Chloe?" Her voice cracks on that last part. "I don't think I can do it anymore, Max."

"No— b-but—" is the extent of Max's words. 

"This town will always be a reminder of that pain," Joyce goes on. "It's so hard, Max. I— I want you to understand, sweetheart, that this isn't an easy decision to have made. And painting over Chloe's room like that—" She breaks off with a sudden sniff, hand going to her mouth. "That wasn't something we took lightly, either. My baby lived in that room all of her life. Her nursery was in there. And— and when I'm here, and I'm trying to sleep at night and all I can think about is how empty the room across from us is—"

She trails off, breathing strained. David places a hand on her arm and his head bows forward, his expression resigned to nothing but the most broken sadness Max has ever seen. 

Joyce not living in Arcadia anymore? The idea is foreign. Difficult to digest, let alone picture. This house has been a constant in Max's life, and the thought of somebody else in here, sitting at this table, watching their TV, living in Chloe's bedroom—

It's unfair of her to think, but she doesn't like it. She imagines Joyce living in some kind of fancy hunting cabin in Idaho and before she knows it, she's shaking her head.

"Max," Joyce presses her lips together wetly, kneading her thumb over Max's knuckles. "I am so sorry, but we have to do what's best for us. We  _have_ to be selfish with this." 

Max stops shaking her head, and she manages to tell Joyce that she's right. She doesn't say she understands, because she doesn't, not really, but she squeezes the woman's hand and swallows back any remaining tears and sucks it up. 

Chloe is rolling her eyes somewhere. She spent the last few years of her life desperate to get out of Arcadia. If she was here, really here, she'd probably be showing David a rare moment of support. Suggesting places to live, trying to push them into going south to California instead of east. Chloe would want them to do this. Max replays the latter over and over in her mind and tries to hear it in Chloe's voice. Imagines Chloe nudging her playfully, wondering why she's crying, wanting to celebrate. 

Whether it would really be true or not, it's still an image that makes Max plaster a believable, supportive smile on her face. It helps her through dinner, helps her to make conversation about normal things, school and her parents, Kate's Meals on Wheels programme, how tasty Joyce's warm apple pie is. Joyce still peers at her worryingly when she drops the two of them back off at Blackwell, and holds Max's gaze a second too long before she drives off. 

She goes with Kate into her dorm, because it's that soft time of night where her only option really is to go to bed, but at the same time, she doesn't want to be alone again yet. 

Kate takes Alice out of her cage and sits her in Max's lap, and Max threads her fingers through the soft fur, full of affection for this twitching, cute little round fluffball. She should have gotten a bunny to keep her company, but it's too late now. And, actually, for the first few months she couldn't even bring herself to shower frequently or eat right; the poor thing would definitely have suffered. 

"How are you feeling?" Kate asks her. She is sitting on her bed, cross-legged, her eyes so kind. 

"Kind of stupid," Max admits. "Kate, I'm so sorry. You wanted a chilled out dinner and I ended up showering you with my tears."

Kate laughs. "You're being silly. And you are absolutely not stupid, you never could be or will be. Do you think you got it all out?"

Max shakes her head slightly. "Kind of, yeah. But I probably have more crying to do. Just when I think I can't cry anymore... something like that happens."

"And that's okay. Trust me, crying helps you heal."

"Thank you, Kate. You're such a good friend." 

"So are you." 

Kate's room is lit softly by the glow of fairy lights. It's neat, colorful and the cheeriness is almost infectious. A picture with splashes of vibrant color sits, just started, on her desk, and Max smiles just looking at it. She should spend more time in here, she tells herself. Kate wouldn't mind. And, come to think of it, she should invite Kate over more, or at least start leaving her door open. That would probably give her some incentive to clean her room now and then. 

"I've been meaning to ask you," Kate says, "how are things going with Nathan?"

"Things?" Max colors. "Uh, what things?" 

Kate gives her a strange look. "The... investigation?"

"Oh! Right. It's still my secret mission," says Max. "Only... not for long. I'm actually going to tell Nathan about his brother next week."

"Really? Oh my gosh, that's  _huge_."

"We're all on the same team," Max shrugs. "He wants to see his father behind bars, as much as this town does."

"Are you sure?" Kate says uncertainly. "I know that Mr. Prescott is—" She swallows. "Not  _nice_ , but he's still Nathan's father. You should be careful when you tell him about Dean, it could really upset him." 

"I can't exactly sugarcoat it," Max says. "How do you tell someone that their brother was mixed up in all of that crap? That their own father was responsible for it?"

"I don't know," Kate says quietly. "I wish I did. But you're  _Max._  You're so good at talking to people, and I truly believe that you're the best person to tell Nathan this. I bet he'll be happy you told him."

Max strokes Alice's back, biting her lip. "He's so much better now, but still unpredictable."

"But you didn't do anything wrong. You're trying to help him, and he'll see that." 

Max raises Alice up close, nuzzling her chin into her soft fur. This all feels... so much bigger than her, and not just the situation with Dean Prescott. It's Arcadia, the whole vibe of this town. She can't ignore the signs of the past few months, or ignore the unsettled stirring in her gut that something is wrong. As she traces these clues and unravels more of this town's knotted up stories and secrets, she can't help but feel like she's being watched, and not by a human being. Arcadia Bay has somehow manifested itself within her as some kind of foreboding feeling, and it follows her around most days now, and it's like it's... waiting. For what, Max has no idea, but she guesses she'll find out soon. She doesn't know whether to be curious or afraid. 

"Max," Kate says, breaking softly into her thoughts. "I've been thinking about all of this recently, and I've made a decision."

"A decision?"

"Let me help you," Kate sits forward, her eyes lighting up with a determination so fierce against her otherwise gentle features. "A real friend wouldn't be sitting back and watching you walk such dangerous paths by yourself. I want to help."

"I don't want you mixed up in all of this," Max breathes, taken aback. "These are very bad people, Kate."

Kate frowns at that, indignant, the ferocity blazing like a furnace. "I'm not scared of Sean Prescott, or Mr. Jefferson, or whoever else is involved in this," she declares. "They should be scared of  _us_."

"But—"

"No. I want to do this. I want to help you take this ring down," Kate interrupts. "If I didn't help you, if you took this all on on your own, I'd never forgive myself."

"It could be dangerous," Max says, stalling a second to wonder why she's trying to talk Kate out of this. If she  _wants_ to help... "Actually, it's definitely going to be dangerous."

Kate stands then, hands on her hips. "I'm tougher than I look." 

Max hesitates. Her mind is pulling itself in two directions, yes and no, making it difficult to see the clear answer.

"You said it yourself," says Kate. "We're all on the same team."

Max watches her, lost for words for a long moment. She is struck hard, and unexpectedly, by what she thinks is pride. Or something like being touched, that someone would be so insistent on helping her, so determined to help her see this through.

Kate's shoulders sag down slightly as Max stands, placing Alice gently down on the end of Kate's bed. Kate stares at her a little defiantly, mouth opening ready to argue, seeing that Max is going to say no—

"If we're doing this," Max says, a smile slowly creeping across her lips, "we'll need a badass team name."

Kate's face splits with excitement. She hurries forward and wraps her arms around her, hugging her tight, so hard that Max's breath burns in her lungs and she's pretty sure this is the 'tougher than she looks' proof. 

"Thank you, Max," Kate says, a little breathless herself. She steps back, smiling brightly. "Next time you're free, let's gather all of the evidence that you've found so far, and work on it together."

"I'd love that, Kate. It's all been so crammed into my head." Max puts her hands to her temples, as if to demonstrate every thought could come bubbling out of her ears at any second, overflowing. "I'm sorry I never asked you to help before, you're so right. I don't think I could do this without you."

"We'll beat them," Kate says, with such conviction that the words almost feel holy. "We will." 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sun returns the following afternoon, but there is no real heat from it, just a saturated light that makes the puddles glimmer. Max surprises herself, pleasantly so, by continuing her record of spending time outside her dorm, and heads into town to buy Harry a birthday present. 

She traipses through Arcadia's only arts and crafts store, a tiny and well-hidden shop between the taxidermist and a line of public phones. Inside, it is explosively colorful and, fortunately, dirt-cheap. This place always reminds her of old birthday parties, for some reason. She remembers her and her mother coming in here to buy those pink paper plates, balloons, streamers, and an armada of colored card, stickers and glitter to make handmade birthday cards. She's glad to see, after all of these years, that nothing has changed here. Arcadia freezes inside these walls.

The clerk at the counter recognises her in some vague, curious way, and Max can't decide if it's because she really remembers her from when she came in here as a kid, or if she's just read the newspapers. She can also tell that she wants to ask her something as she scans the items through, her eyes flicking to her face constantly. It's... unpleasant. Max remembers how she faded into this town like evaporating smoke, perfectly anonymous. She guesses she can never go back to those days, now.

Until, maybe, something even more terrible and gossip-worthy strikes the town and the ordeal of the last year is brushed quickly aside, something new to focus on and verbally tear apart. Is it bad, Max thinks, that she half-hopes for something like that?

Aside from the new, papery-smelling drawing pad and sketching pencils she's picked up, she throws in a blue birthday card with a large '10!' on the cover that isn't the most gaudy, and walks out of the store with a strange smile on her face. She didn't ever picture herself buying birthday presents for a Prescott, but then, she never expected to be kissing one, either. Jesus. Her stomach flips in a very  _pay attention to me_ way, and Max turns the corner to the main street with a glowing heat rising in her cheeks.

He hasn't called her yet, but then again, it's only been two days. Or is she supposed to call him? She's not really sure how this thing works. Chloe would know. Chloe would give her sarcastic tips. Oh, crap, has Max become one of those girls that needs  _tips?_  Her last kiss was Fernando, two years after moving to Seattle. But she doesn't think that counts, because it had been an awkward, self-conscious type of kiss that they laughed off, becoming friends instantly straight after. Is the same thing going to happen with her and Nathan? She tries to imagine going back on Wednesday, pushing out a breath as the image comes. She can still feel his hands in her hair, his mouth and how it had fit so easily over her own. He'd smelled kind of minty, like the chewing gum from the hospital vending machine, smelt soapy like the flowers from the gardens. The old Nathan, the one from every other universe, had always seemed so unapproachable, aloof. If she'd thought about it back then, she'd probably have guessed he would kiss hard, angry. She didn't expect him to be so warm, or so soft. 

The thought of going back makes anxiety surge, but underneath, there is also a giddy excitement. It makes her feel light, like a shaken soda can. 

Walking around with the memory replaying feels like carrying around a secret, concealing it in her hands. She wonders if he's thinking about her, and catches herself hoping that he is. 

When she reaches the Two Whales, the air has turned salty and crisp, and she considers going inside for something to eat. But ruminating alone by a window is something she's probably better off doing back at her dorm, and anyway, though she's not going to admit it to herself, she's kind of avoiding Joyce. She knows it’s selfish, but she can't process her decision to leave, and is worried that if Joyce brings the subject up again, Max will blurt something she regrets, or—worse—turn into a human water fountain again. She realises that this must be how Chloe had felt, when Max had left. She'd never been able to relate to the hurt she'd glimpsed so many times in Chloe's eyes, but now, she thinks she understands. And it's just guilt, all over again.

The same old cycle: feel bad, feel guilt, feel worse. 

In the alley, something catches her eye and she stops in place. The small, dank back is a smattering of puddle-filled pot holes and saturated sheets of newspaper, plastered against the asphalt, and at the very back, a small figure hunches against the cold. Max's feet move, almost of their own accord, carrying her over. 

"Hello," she says. 

"Well, hello there," says the homeless woman. She's seated uncomfortably on a damp piece of cardboard, surrounded by arbitrary possessions. She is the same as before, dressed in shabby clothes, her eyes cloudy with cataracts. She looks cold and exhausted. "Now, you look like a Blackwell student." 

"I am," Max nods. "What gave it away?"

"You have a creative look about you. Smart. I can tell you have a good head on your shoulders." 

The woman takes hold of the disposable cup of coffee next to her, and takes a shaky sip as she peers up at Max. The same look the clerk at the art shop had given her slowly registers, and Max, on instinct, braces.

"You're that girl," says the homeless woman. "I read about you in the Beacon, back in October. Max, isn't it?"

"Wow. You have a good memory."

"Oh, I know everything about Arcadia Bay. Been here so long, this town is engraved in my bones." The woman hums. "That's why it wasn't such a shock to hear that the perpetrator of that heinous crime was a Prescott. That poor girl." 

Max bites her lip. "Do you know a lot about the Prescotts?"

The woman's voice changes. Twists, takes on an almost poisonous spit. "Sean Prescott ruined this town, made Arcadia  _rotten_. Him and his greedy bastard associates. Pushed people out of their homes and their work, people like me." She sniffs. "I wasn't always like this, all... broken-down. And neither was Arcadia." 

Max gets a flash of the neat, ornate tombstones on top of the cemetery hill, of Nathan's words. "I heard that they actually used to be good," she says. "The Prescotts."

"Well, once upon a time, they were," the woman snorts. "Sean Prescott's father, Harry, and the Prescotts before him did a  _lot_ of good for this town. They made smart investments and crafted this town into something we could all be proud of. The way Arcadia Bay was then, without all the greed, that's when I was happiest. But that's changed. Gone now. Sean Prescott pissed on all of it."

Max frowns. Despite her worn appearance, this woman isn't that old. How could she have been around back then? Something strange, a rush of ' _But, what if_ ’— twitches into life at the base of her spine.  _Hardly_ , Max thinks. She's probably referring to her family being happy back then, not herself. 

"Don't you think Arcadia Bay could be like that again?" Max asks swiftly. "There's a big trial coming up. It could give a lot of people justice." 

"I don't know about that." the woman replies. "In my experience, nothing stands in the way of that family. Not even the law. That kind of power... it's corrupted this entire town." She leans forward, eyes suddenly hard. "The problem isn't the rotten apple, you know. It's the whole damn barrel. All of Arcadia needs to be washed of its sins, not just one family."

A cold gust of salty air breezes aggressively past, and the woman shivers. Max digs in her pocket for the loose change leftover from the store, and presses it into the older lady's wrinkled, calloused hand. 

"Here, please," Max says. "You should get a hot meal." 

"Thank you." The woman gives her a weak, but genuine, smile. "I really appreciate that. You are a very generous young woman." She glances down at the change and rattles it together lightly. "There is so much darkness in this town, but you've reminded me that there is a lot of good, too."

"Don't lose hope," Max says softly, and hopes to God it doesn't sound pretentious. "The good side always wins." 

The woman smiles. "I was right, you are smart. Thanks for the advice, child. You can come and talk to me whenever you'd like. I'll be right here."

 

* * *

 

 

 

Nell is slumped over folders and reports at the nurse's desk when Max arrives. Her hair is in its usual loose bun, but wilder, like she's slept on it. Her lips look dry and her uniform is threaded with tiny fissures of wrinkles. The nurse behind her, the blonde one with the heavy eye make-up that's almost always on when Nell is, is answering phones two a time, harried and harassed. 

Max leans on the counter with her hand under her chin, smiling. "I'm starting to think you live here," she quips.

"Tell that to my landlord," Nell retorts, without even looking up from her paperwork. 

"Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee from downstairs?"

"Ooh, could you attach it by IV to my arm? Because I think that would work better. I'm serious. Pipe that stuff right into my veins."

Nell reaches blindly behind her for the box of visitors passes, so attuned to this desk and this hospital, it's one part admirable and one part scary. While Max is pinning it to the chest of her sweatshirt, she glances down curiously at the first file on the stack. Her fingers fumble when she spots Nathan's name at the top, as well as a picture that looks like it was taken when he first got here. He stares, dazed and vacant, into the camera, his face ashen. 

Nell flicks her eyes up. "Nosy much?" She says it with amusement, though, and a fond smile.

"Sorry. I was just... is that Nathan's file?"

"Yeah, I'm just updating some stuff." 

"What's your read on him?"

"My read?"

"You know, psychologically?" Max shrugs. "He's so different to the Nathan I knew at Blackwell."

Nell hums. "It's an amazing result for eight months, but I think he was crying out for good mental health care." She closes the file over. "I'm not his psychiatrist or his physician, but from what I can see, he's doing better than we could have even hoped."

"I'm so glad to hear that," says Max. "He's been through a lot."

"You're tellin' me. He told me about how his parents treated his mental health when he was a little kid. I mean, jesus. Things could have turned out so differently for him if they'd cared. They had the money to get him the best counsellors and support in the country." Nell stops herself short, sighing. "Sorry. I don't mean to bitch."

"Please, bitch away," Max replies. 

"I'm just saying, it's not uncommon," says Nell, "to see families not engage with these problems, but experience taught me that comes from a place of fear, or of misunderstanding. Nathan's parents, his father at least, don't even seem... to feel  _anything_ about it. It confuses the hell out of me." 

"They're not nice people."

"Yeah, I learned that pretty quick. It's a shame. They should be proud of how far Nathan's come."

A warm grin twitches on Max's lips, and she lets it grow in the silence that settles.

Nell gives her an odd look, raising her eyebrows. "What're you smiling about?"

"Nothing, just," Max says, "You really care about him."

Nell makes a face, rolling her eyes. "I care about everybody here. It's kind of in the job description."

Max keeps smiling at her.

Nell groans. "Fine.  _Maybe_ Chuckles has grown on me a little bit. Like a flesh-eating disease! Or fungus."

Max laughs. "You're such a boss, Nell. The patients here are so lucky to have you."

"You're going to make me blush, Max Caulfield." Nell passes her the guest book to sign in, smirking. "Look, it's just nice to see him doing so well. Compared to how he was when he first got here..." She makes a face. "It's just good. Nice to see him coming back to the real world. Seeing improvement like that justifies why I choose to pretty much live here." 

Max slides the guest book back. "Are you worried about the trial?"

"I... just hope it's fair. That's all I want," Nell says. "When he got here, Nathan was in one of the worst disassociation states I've ever seen. That creeper, Jefferson? I think he was able to get Nathan to do the things he did because of it. By taking himself out of the world, a nice messy coping mechanism, Nathan wasn't in his own mind. Mix that in with a sibling's death that he never had the tools to get over, and an intense need for validation and approval from an abusive father, it's something I want the jury to consider." She shakes her head suddenly. "Sheesh. Sorry. Let's keep it light." She jerks her thumb in the direction of the rain, pounding against the window. "Pity about the weather, huh?"

"Yeah, it sucks."

"Oh, I bet." Nell has that  _smirk_ again. Max should really give it its own name, at this point. "I mean, you won't be able to go outside. So. That must be... disappointing."

Max flushes. "Nell—"

"Relax," the nurse laughs. "I'm not going to tell anyone. And, actually, I think it's nice." She stashes the guest book back underneath the desk, and the warm smile she sends Max only makes her face heat more. "I'm just saying. I'm not the only one he's lucky to have." 

Max's mouth parts, bewildered, and she tries to figure out how to respond to that, to the way the words make her feel. But before she can, Nell is straightening up and casting a lazy smile to the left and Max knows without having to look that Nathan's there. 

"Ah," Nell says. "Speak of the fungus."

Max can only steal a glance at him, she's not able to look at him properly for some reason. His outline radiates in her peripheral vision, and she's aware he's in his red jacket, hands fisted in the pockets. 

"What the fuck? Fungus?"

"I meant it in a loving way."

"...What?"

Suddenly, Nell claps Max hard on the shoulder, yanking her out of her floor-staring shyness.  _Get a grip, Max._ "Alright, go grab a chair somewhere. Bond. Talk. I'll see you kids later." 

She picks up her heaving stack of files and turns, disappearing into the little room at the back, and Max can't move. Nathan lingers next to her, also silent, waiting, and—

 _Shit, it's awkward already_. 

"Um," Max blurts, still not looking. 

Nathan doesn't say anything, so she decides she might as well bite the bullet and look at him. She raises her head and looks over. She doesn't know why this time is different, just because of one impulsive kiss, but it happens nonetheless. Her heart, innocently hammering away, jolts suddenly into her sinuses. 

His head is tilted slightly to one side, hands still in his pockets, and he looks good. Rested. Max thinks that it makes his eyes bluer, and that makes her consider that she might be going crazy. And she never noticed his freckles before, dusted across his nose, a little faded but still there. One kiss has made her notice  _freckles_. That's it, she's officially going—

Oh, he's holding his arms out, probably because she's been staring at him like a true creeper without saying anything. 

Max steps into the hug and rests her cheek against his chest. She catches the muffled thump of his heartbeat,  _surprised_ by its jerky skip. Is he nervous? If he's nervous, it makes her feel better. Less like a loser. His arms tighten around her briefly before she's released, and she follows him over to an empty two-seater table by the window, setting her bag down on the table. Her skin is prickling through her clothes from where he touched her, and the lingering scent of him is still minty, mingled with the wooly scent of the blankets here. 

"I expected to see Harry here," Max muses, just for something to say. "It's his birthday, right?"

"Tomorrow," Nathan answers. "He's coming back from St. Benedict's early, so he can come hang here." 

"That's awesome! I bet you two will have such a great time."

"I was so... fucked up before," Nathan says. "I feel like I missed out on a lot of his stuff, you know? I wasn't there."

"You're here now," Max says. "That's enough. I bet Harry understands that."

"He's smart, you know," Nathan says proudly. "So fucking smart. Way smarter than I was. I hate the fact he has to come all the way here to hang out, but... it doesn't even seem to affect him." 

Max dips her hand into her bag and pulls out the gift-wrapped sketchbook and pencils, as well as the birthday card, and slides them across the table. "I got these," she says, "so you can pass them on for me tomorrow." 

Nathan stares down at them, taken aback. "Max," he traces a finger over the crackling blue paper, "you seriously didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to," Max says, shrugging it off.

"Damn, he's gonna lose his  _mind,_ " Nathan says. "This'll make up for the fact I can't get him shit, if you don't count the trash in the vending machine." He shakes his head, almost to himself. "I meant to give him this photo for Christmas, but... everything happened, and I never got to. He's going to really love this." He looks at her, still shaking his head. "But seriously, you didn't have to get him anything."

She grins. "I said, I  _wanted_ to. Me and Harry are like, best friends. In case you haven't noticed."

"I did, actually," Nathan returns her smile. "He's fucking obsessed with you. I'd be nervous if, you know, he wasn't ten. Poor kid doesn't stand a chance with you."

Max laughs. "Right."

"Plus, you did jump on  _me_ last week."

Her laugh hitches. Nathan seems to notice, and it makes her flush. Something akin to an adrenaline rush hits her, and her mind fills with the thought that  _okay, this conversation is officially happening._ The elephant in the room, that Max honestly expected to remain unacknowledged, has just sat on the damn table. 

"You didn't forget, did you?" Nathan teases. 

"No, of— of course not. I just thought— because you didn't  _call_ , because you looked freaked out when I left last week—"

"I wasn't freaked out," Nathan says defensively. "I was just surprised."

A silence falls. Max fidgets anxiously with her hands. "I kind of was, too. I didn't mean—"

"Whoa, whoa, I'm not saying it was bad." 

Max lifts her eyes and meets his gaze. "I just... don't want things to be weird."

Nathan is quiet for a second, and then he sighs, shoving his hands deeper inside his pockets. "Look, Max, I'm... shitty at this kind of stuff, so I'll just say this once. What happened last week, it was... awesome. I never thought you'd— I guess I just...I froze. I just didn't expect it."

Max sinks her teeth gently into her lower lip, breath held. "But...?"

"But you shouldn't feel weird about it. Because... it's up to you." He gives her a weary look. "I talked a big game back at Blackwell, but the truth is, you're one in only a handful of people that I let get close. So whatever you wanna do, I'm fine with. S'long as we still get to hang out or whatever."

"Whatever I... want to do?"

Nathan swallows. "I... I like you. I do."

The moment hangs. The adrenaline rush is back with a force, and Max feels it flowing from the crown of her head all the way down to her toes.

"But that doesn't matter," Nathan adds, before she can say anything. Her mouth closes, bewildered. He's looking everywhere but at her. "I don't want to fuck this up, you know? So, if you want to forget about last week, it's done. Not a problem. I won't—"

"What if I don't want to forget about it?"

Nathan skids to a silent stop, kind of abruptly, like when you hit the brake too hard on an accelerating car. 

"My head is kind of fuzzy, with a lot of different things right now," Max says quickly, "So, I would need some time, but... I don't think I want to forget about it." 

Nathan's hands fall to his sides. "Oh." A muscle in his jaw tightens. "For real?"

Max nods slowly, heat rising to her cheeks again.

"I, uh, didn't get a speech ready for that outcome," he says, but he's suddenly smiling, his ears growing pink. "Seriously?"

She takes a shaky breath. Her mind is telling her several things, and her chest is experiencing the clench of them all in various degrees. A lot of words come, others don't, but among the ones that actually make it all the way out of her throat and out, right out, into the air, are, "I like you too."

And Nathan goes kind of slack, his frame slouching down into the chair another inch at the same time it goes completely stiff. His eyes glaze over, his mind no longer with her. 

"Nathan, you're... freezing again."

"Sorry," he says. He scrubs a hand over his eyes and licks his lips. "Uh, you— surprised me again, Caulfield."

"You were right," Max says softly, a smile twitching her lips. "You are shitty at this."

And Nathan  _laughs_. Genuinely, a little too loud, like he didn't expect it. 

"I know," he says. "God, I fucking know."

The words raise a laugh out of Max, too, and when Nathan turns his head to look out of the window, he's still smiling. The smoky-gray light glows milk-white against the soft line of his nose, the harder straight-down ridge of his forehead. There's so much contrasting light, from the gray against the rich red of his jacket, to the happy brightness of the blue eyes set in the clear, pale face. 

Max slips her hand into her bag slowly and finds her camera. She manages to snap the photo without him noticing, and is already waving it in the air, waiting for it to fully form, when Nathan turns his head from the sound of the mechanical whirr and looks at her with raised eyebrows.

"I won't apologise!" Max grins, "It was a great photo op." 

Nathan extends his hand out and, after a shy hesitation, Max gives it to him. 

"Damn," he says, "that's the best picture anyone's ever taken of me."

"You're only saying that because I said I liked you," Max jokes, already making grabby-hands, impatient to get it back.  

"No, it's seriously good. Check out the lighting, the framing." He slides it back to her. "I'd keep it, only I'm not in here for narcissism." The light of an idea pops behind his eyes. "C'mere."

"What?"

"Come  _here._ "

Brow furrowed, Max shifts slowly to the right, dragging her chair with her to the other side of the table. Nathan follows, and then he's there, pressed up against her side and slipping his arm around her back. He takes her camera and holds it out, held slightly aloft.

He's so close and warm against her, fingers heavy against her waist. The index finger on his other hand moves over the button at the top, and Max is so surprised she almost forgets to smile. At the last minute she does, without teeth, Nathan's hair tickling the side of her temple.

The flash is strong. She blinks through it, blearily, and rubs her eyes as Nathan sets the camera down and shakes the photo. It's kind of strange to see him do it, a movement so suited to herself. 

"I used to shoot in black and white," he informs her, "but I can see how this works."

Max jumps when he suddenly tears the picture in two. "What are you doing?"

The pieces separate cleanly. The one that holds Max's image, her hair in her eyes a little, a reddish hue dusted across her cheeks, Nathan keeps. He passes the other piece to her. 

Nathan's smiling more with his eyes than his mouth in the picture, an almost mischievous lilt in the way he has slightly raised one eyebrow. 

"I can keep this?" Max says.

"If you want. I just thought it was a cool idea." Nathan puts his piece in his pocket and moves back to his side of the table. "I used to... shit, never mind."

"What?"

"It's stupid. Never mind."

"No, tell me." 

He sighs. "Dean. He used to go to these summer camps all the time when we were kids. Before he went, he'd always take a photo of me, him and Kristine, get it developed, and then take our pieces with him, and leave his piece with us. Like the asshole was going off to war or something." 

"That's really sweet, actually," says Max. "Was Dean into photography?"

Nathan snorts. "Fuck no. He was just a sentimental bastard. Stupid kid stuff." 

And Max remembers, he needs to know. She promised herself not to leave here without telling him the truth about his brother. She moves back to the other side of the table in what feels like slow-motion, breath held and hot in her throat. She moves her bag to the side, out of the way, as if it will impede their conversation somehow. 

Max's eyes settle on him tentatively, as if he's a spooked horse. 

"Nathan, I have something to tell you," she says, her voice so small, it's a wonder he can even hear her. 

He leans forward on his hand, nodding. "Yeah?"

"It's about, um, the trial. The investigation." 

His hand falls. He folds his arms and leans on them instead, eyes widening. "No shit?"

"I—"

"Did you talk to Carmin?"

Max pauses, and manages a nod. "Yes. She wants to help."

"No  _shit_ ," Nathan repeats, this time a little louder, startling a dozing patient nearby on the couch. "The wolf has a heart, after all. Did you tell her what I said? About my father? About the ring?"

Max nods again, this time a little shakily. "She wasn't that crazy about helping us, unless I could find some proof that your father was actually involved in the Dark Room."

"Typical lawyer," Nathan sighs. He presses his knuckles against his forehead. "Jesus fuck, Max, I wouldn't know where to start—"

"It's okay. I... already sort of started."

Nathan stares at her.

"I found proof."

"Seriously?" Nathan gapes. "For fuckin' real? Max!" He grasps her hand, squeezing it. "You're— God, you're amazing—"

"Nathan." The tone of her voice stops him. She feels his grip loosen. "I don't really know how to say this next part, so I'm just going to."

"Oh...kay?"

"It's about Dean. I followed some clues and... there is a lot of proof that he was helping your father with the photography ring."

Nathan slumps back in his chair.

"Bullshit," he says, his voice thin. Then he sits up a little straighter and shouts, " _Bullshit_ " again, so loudly that Max jumps and hits her knee underneath the table. 

"Whoa," Nell calls to them. She's back at the desk, a hand gripping her hair tiredly. "Inside voice, please."

Nathan acknowledges her with a brief wave of his hand, but he never tears his gaze away from Max. He leans forward, and then goes back, his skin suddenly drained of color.

"I'm sorry," Max whispers, feeling pathetic.

"No, no no  _no_ , that's—" Nathan frowns, and starts to shake his head violently. "How?  _How?_   There's no fucking way! No fucking way at all."

"Dean was buying ketamine from Frank Bowers, and we think he was giving it your father, to send to Mr. Jefferson." 

Nathan puts his hands on the table and clenches them until they're white. "You're— you're lying."

"I'm not. I'd never lie about something like this. You  _know_ I wouldn't."

"You think he was giving it to the ring," Nathan snaps. "You said you  _think_. That's not enough."

"I was trying to be... delicate. We have solid evidence." 

Nathan says nothing at all while Max tells him about Frank's account book, about Dean's file in Principal Wells' office, about how he bought up the whole supply of ketamine the night he died, most likely planning on sending the whole lot to Jefferson.

Nathan says nothing, but he shakes. Shakes apart.

Max rounds the table fast, the chair scratching as she pulls it. She collapses at his side and grabs both of his hands, squeezing, feeling their roughness, how tightly they're clenched, thumb rubbing circles over the back of his hands. There are faded scars there, small white fissures. 

"I'm  _so_  sorry, Nathan. I'm so sorry."

"That's— Dean, h-he—  _Fuck._ I really want to punch something right now."

"I'll get Nell—"

"No, don't." His hand comes down on top of hers, and then he starts taking deep breaths, holding for a few seconds at a time before releasing, still trembling. "I just need to— I know how to calm down."

She finds herself breathing with him, holding when he holds, releasing when he does. His hands slowly stop shaking, but he looks sick. 

"I didn't know," he says finally. Brokenly. "I had no fucking idea. A-All my father's talk about  _legacy_ —" The word is spat out with venom. "He wasn't talking about the fucking reputation of our family, he was talking about the  _ring._ He was moulding Dean into it, just like he did with me."

"He must have filled Dean's head with the same horrible lies," Max says softly. "And your brother probably wanted to impress him." 

But Nathan is shaking his head, his brow scrunched up, frustrated. "This doesn't make any goddamn sense. Dean— Dean wasn't like me. He wasn't fucked up in the head, he didn't need to impress our father. There's no fucking way."

Nell is staring at them worriedly from across the room, but Max sends her a smile that feels more confident than she does, and puts the nurse at ease. She huddles closer to Nathan, as if to shield him from... something. His own pain, his own torment, ricocheting around his insides like a storm.

"I think the drugs must have made him... easily manipulated," says Max. 

"You said Frank Bowers? No, no, that's— if he was slinging my brother drugs, that bastard would have said something. There's no way he wouldn't want to hold that over my head."

"Frank didn't know," Max says. "He thought he was dealing to Dean for his personal use, until Dean accidentally told them he was buying ketamine for your father. And before he could confront Dean about it, he died. When he heard about the Dark Room being busted, he figured it all out." 

Nathan hunches over, kneading his face with both hands. " _Fuck_ this. Fuck everything."

"I'm so sorry," Max says again, because it's all that is coming to her. She hates how helpless she feels. She rests her hand tentatively on his shoulder. He's shaking underneath her palm. "Dean is the link between Mr. Jefferson and your father, and whoever else is involved in this messed up ring. That's why you have to help. I'm  _this_ close to getting everything we need for this investigation."

But Nathan doesn't seem to be listening. "Is that how my brother died?" he asks, his voice small. "I was right? It was drugs?"

Max nods, her heart pounding. "Carmin can get her hands on his autopsy report. Your father forged another one, saying it was a heart condition, so no one would poke too much into it and maybe learn about the Dark Room." 

"He covered it all up. That asshole. That scummy, gutless—" He doesn't finish, just drops his head into his hands again and huffs out a tight breath. 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Max's hand still on his shoulder, tracing circles on the thick material of his jacket. She listens to him breathing, how it stutters the first ten or so times he attempts to hold it. 

Nathan takes his hands away and turns to meet her gaze. He looks exhausted. 

"Dean always said our family was fuckin' cursed," he says roughly. "I guess he was right."

"I know it's a lot," Max says gently. "And I know ignorance is bliss… but I thought you should know— I-I wanted you to know. Carmin's planning on using it all at the trial, and I didn't want then to be the first time you had to hear it."

Which is another thing. The big thing. The whole  _bathroom and I saw you shoot Chloe thing_. She's going to need to tell him about that, too, before the next two weeks run out. Max's pulse feels electric, pumping at dangerous levels. Now that the truth about Dean is out, spinning in the air, lifted off her shoulders with a tremendous hot weight, it'd be the perfect time to tell him about that, too. But she can't. It's too much. His brain would probably explode, and she hasn't come up with how to phrase it yet. It has to be done delicately. If it isn't, she knows there's a good chance she lose him. 

"Nathan, I need you with me on this," Max says, moving closer. "But if it's too intense, I understand. You're going to have to put your own father in prison. Bad person or not, that's not exactly easy to do."

Nathan is biting the inside of his cheek. "He knew this whole time, and he didn't say shit. He  _knew_ Dean was involved, how— damn it, how he died? And he pretended he didn't. Shit, I bet my mom doesn't even know. He knows what really happened to Dean and he's not going to tell her. That's fucking  _sick_. Dean would— Dean would want her to know." 

"Are you angry with him?" Max asks. "Your brother?"

"I'm always pissed at him. But I can't be pissed about this."

His eyes are haunted, the blue burning. Max's hand slides down to his forearm, rolling across the material as she curls her fingers tightly around the trembling but solid skin underneath. 

"There's something else."

"What?"

Max pulls her bag across the table and into her lap, slipping a hand in and easily finding the piece of paper, nestled so white in between tattered schoolbooks and her ignored diary. Nathan's eyes are stuck to her every movement, and she watches the confusion register on his face as she passes him the paper.

"What the hell is this? Homework?"

And then his eyes scan the first few typed lines and he just... disintegrates. 

"Read it," Max instructs quietly. "You need to." 

He does. Slowly. So slowly that Max thinks his brain must have gotten jammed on a particular word, unable to move forward, a car stuck in thick inches of mud. The transcript is shaking between his slender fingers. 

 _This must be what it's like to get a letter from a ghost_ , Max thinks. It's definitely not as cool as she'd once thought. 

"I think I wanna puke." Nathan drops the transcript like it burned him. 

Max catches it before it flutters to the ground. "Are you going to?"

"No. I-I don't think so. Fuck. What— Max, what the hell did I just read?"

"The night that Dean overdosed, he called Officer Berry and asked to meet him. When Officer Berry said no, Dean called back and left a voicemail. That's the transcript." She holds it out towards him.

"No, I don't want to read it again." He grabs at his hair hard, running his fingers through it. "Don't make me read it again."

"I won't. Swear." 

"Berry," Nathan says, all in one breath, "How? Did you talk to him?" 

"Carmin sent me to. He told me about Dean making contact before he died, and the autopsy report." 

" _He_ knew?" Nathan's eyes flash. "You're fucking kidding me! Does EVERYBODY in this shithole know what actually happened to my brother?"

"No, but they will," Max shoots back, surprised by the intensity of her own voice. "This voicemail, everything we've found so far— _this_ is how we can make sure your father doesn't hurt anybody else. We can shut down the Dark Room for once and for all." 

"This isn't real," Nathan babbles, more to himself than to her. "Holy shit, this can't be real—"

"Nathan, listen to me. I wish that you didn't have to find out this way, and I wish none of this shit ever even happened to you. But this is our chance to stop it, to reverse it and use it on someone who actually deserves it."

"I know," Nathan says bitterly. "And that son of a  _bitch_ deserves everything coming to him." He moves his eyes slowly and looks at her, the most stern she's ever seen him. "I'm in. Officially. Tell Carmin I'm down for whatever she has to do." 

Max moves back to her side of the table and her head falls to rest on her arms. She thinks she's tired; of seeing people sad, of having to constantly protect Arcadia from itself. There are more ghosts and lost memories here than she knows how to deal with. 

"Think about the last time you saw him," Max murmurs. "Try to remember if there was anything weird or unusual."

"Yeah." Nathan looks like he wants to say something else, but then there are footsteps, and Nell arrives. 

She's holding a tall cup of coffee, practically inhaling it. "Everything okay over here?" 

They both nod. Max reaches out to holster the strap of her bag on her arm. Visiting hours are over, as families stand up and fold their loved ones into long, lingering hugs. The thought of the rain outside, of the lonely bus ride back with just her pounding headache, is deeply unappealing. She wishes she could stay for a little while longer. There is still so much to say and figure out, and leaving Nathan like this twists her stomach into a fist. 

Her chest is itching, the way it had done when she and Chloe had been straddling the line of finding the Dark Room. She knows she's close to something, can feel it vibrating in the air, drumming a beat underneath the rubber floor. 

Nathan stands up slowly, frowning, his jaw set tight. 

Nell chucks him lightly on the shoulder. "There's that dazzling smile," she quips. "Really, put it away before I go blind."

Nathan ignores her. He steps out from behind the table, still frowning. He looks distracted, and Max knows he's going to head back to his room and think hard about all of this. She really wishes he could stay. She knows what it's like, to digest information like that alone. 

"I'll call you," he tells her, sounding strangely intense. 

"Whoops, am I third wheeling? I am, aren't I?" Nell smirks at them and turns on her heel. "See you at the desk, Max."

Max smiles awkwardly, a hand coming up to scratch idly at her opposite arm. "She's—"

A startled squeak falls from her mouth as Nathan grabs her mid-sentence, pulling her close against his chest and winding his arms around her tight. 

"Thank you," he says, somewhat muffled against her shoulder, the words etched with something pained. "For telling me." 

Her stomach has gone all watery. There is a slight ache in both of her feet from having to stand on tip-toes. "You deserved to hear it," she manages. 

He pulls away from her, shaking his head, his face just inches away and so easy to...

"Carmin didn't want you to, right? Tell me?"

Max bites her lip, and it seems to be answer enough. Nathan doesn't even look mad, though. He doesn't even look surprised.

"I'm used to that crap," he says. "No one tells me anything. My father, my mother, my sister." He swallows. "Dean. It just... I appreciate it, you know?"

Max does. 

The ward has cleared out of all guests except for Max, and she casts a nervous glance towards the front desk, expecting the orderlies to rush her towards the door. But there's no movement, not really, and Nell leans over the desk, hand moving sluggishly over files. 

"There's still a lot of stuff I need to ask you," Max says quickly. "And tell you."

He half-smiles, and she doesn't catch the nervousness brimming underneath. "Well, I'll be ready."

But will she be? 

"How long have you been working on this?" Nathan asks her.

"A... while," she admits, rubbing the back of her neck. 

"Nobody's ever done this much for me," he says, and the benevolent gaze he's giving her colors her cheeks. "But it's fucked up. Max, you shouldn't be sucked up into this shit. Carmin can handle the rest. If my father finds out—"

"He won't. That's what Carmin's handling, better than I ever could. And two brains are better than one."

"I guess," Nathan says, still looking unsettled. "Just be careful."

"No worries," Max says cheerfully. She thinks about Kate, and smiles. "I'm tougher than I look."

"You really are, aren't you?"

A high-pitched whistle splits the air and makes Max start. Her head whips around to find Nell, sending them a fond smile from the front desk.

"Max!" Nell calls. "For every minute you hang around, you have to buy me a coffee."

"Right," Max breathes. "I should go."

She swipes the transcript off the table and puts it carefully back inside her bag. She signs out at the desk, and as she turns to go, waves back at Nathan, who has sunk back into the chair by the window. He doesn't see her, staring out through the moisture-spotted glass, lost in thought. 

The bus is a few minutes late, despite Max's stalling, so that by the time she climbs aboard and collapses into her usual seat on the left, she's shivering with the cold and damp. 

On the bus, she puts a hand against the cold window, watching the hospital drift away in the background as the bus pulls off. She's thinking about the investigation, about Nathan, about the trial, when a sudden and rather explosive cold shiver pops at the base of her spine. 

Arcadia is watching, she thinks; waiting to see what happens. Max feels like an ant under a magnifying glass, and like at any moment, Arcadia could dislike the path she's taking, and hold the glass underneath the sun. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The photo of Harry that Nathan mentioned refers to [ this](http://65.media.tumblr.com/1db7268002ccfb8f93b636a9f8fc7bca/tumblr_nu1mwjbsaz1u3ibk4o2_540.png) one, found in his dorm in episode 4. It's actually the photo that served as the inspiration for Harry in the first place! :)


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for how long this took - life got real you guys. Between writer's block, laptop troubles and also some health issues, I was snowed under. Thank you so much for your mighty patience!!! I hope this chapter was worth the wait. There is one more chapter left before the trial starts! :D
> 
> Thank you Kittiara for her fab work on this one, as usual! <3

  
  


  
Max is awakened to a vibrating text message somewhere in the suspended dismal grey light of Tuesday morning. 

As her eyes blink blearily open, she realizes that she fell asleep slumped over her desk.  _ Again. _  She reeks like the damp sweat of yesterday's clothes, and sleeping with her mouth pressed against a litter of papers has turned her lips chapped and dry. She doesn't feel any semblance of being rested, her eyes tired and sore. What's the point of finally succumbing to sleep after days of fighting it, only to have it not rejuvenate her even the slightest bit?

The lid of her laptop is closed, but she knows the second she lifts it back up, the menacing string of tabs from last night's fervent investigative searches will rear their heads again, the most stressful morning greeting she can imagine. 

Max raises her head, groaning under her breath at the stiffness of her joints, the unforgiving crick in her neck. It looks like a library threw up on her desk; there are so many scraps of paper, so many stacks of intense-looking books. Her printer had been moaning mechanically until at least one A.M.. Some kind of bizarro-o detective compulsion had overtaken her at some point yesterday, and she'd been printing everything—even the most vague, unhelpful items that probably wouldn't help the case at all: some old interviews with a gregarious Dean Prescott on his swimming success, shocked and somber 2010 newspaper articles announcing his death, more recent articles on Chloe Price and her "tragic slaying". Max doesn't ever want to read the words "a shocking loss" ever again. 

She grabs her phone, squinting through the groggy glaze in her eyes. It's from Kate. 

_ Good morning Max :) Listen, I've been thinking. I don't think that we are enough. We need more people to help us out with all of this - and I think I know some who would definitely help. Warren and Victoria. _

 

Max expels a shaky sigh. No,  _ this _  is definitely the most stressful morning greeting she can imagine.  Her fingers twitch on the keys, her body thrumming up with a hot, rushing anxiety. It's not that she's worried about Victoria or Warren helping or anything, because God knows Victoria has helped her get this far, and Warren accepts any half-explained, frenzied plan Max explains to him with an almost alarming degree of casualness. It's hard for her to diagnose, exactly, just what she's worried about. It just makes her hesitate. It makes her first instinct to be texting back a deadpan  _ no. _

Before she can answer anything at all, though, her phones vibrates again.

 

_ No one knows the Prescotts like Victoria, and Warren's practically six brains put together. Of course I wouldn't ask them without your permission, but I think you should really consider it  _

Max has the sudden intense sensation of being backed into a corner, walls looming up shadowed and imposing above her. A part of her is hissing that involving anyone else is just asking for trouble, while the other part, in a much softer, more rational tone of voice, murmurs that there would be more positives than negatives. More people means protection, not the opposite of. More people means strength. Both voices build into a steady crescendo, falling over one another in an attempt to be heard. 

This isn't some Scooby Doo investigation, Max tells herself. This is a real-life trek through the brambly, overgrown unknown, with dangerous people and catastrophic consequences. She can't involve her friends in that, it wouldn't be fair. Sean Prescott could rain down merciless on them, an inescapable avalanche of trouble. There would be no room for mistakes. And time is precious. 

But on the other hand, Kate  _ is _  right. Victoria knew Dean, really knew the gritty details of him. She's the only person connected that closely to Dean who isn't a lawyer, a cop, or a family member Max could offend or piss the hell off. She might be able to help trace his decline, from the glittering, trophy-lined top of the world to the dark, seedy underbelly.

And Victoria, like Warren, already knows that she's been looking into Dean—into the Prescotts. This won't be any colossal bombshell. What it is, simply, at the very core, is a tremendous blind leap into the vast unknown. She's already perched at the cliff-edge, ready to jump; the only difference now is she's asking her friends to tumble over with her. 

Can she really do that? Is it really fair?

Warren would ask her to help him, if he was in this situation. Victoria might not ask, but Max would determinedly help anyway. 

For the third time in as many minutes, her phone buzzes. 

 

_ Like you said, we really are all on the same team.  _

The decision is made. 

She's sick of running, tired of hiding things. The temptation to come clean has been so overwhelming lately that she can almost feel the weight of it radiating hot off her shoulders, begging to be released and evaporated and never burdened upon her shaking shoulders ever again. She's supposed to be telling the truth. She wrote it in her journal, she made it a goal, and now it hangs above her head every second of the day, reminding her. Pushing her. 

And it looks like Max is jumping. 

Hastily, watching her breathing, Max tosses her accidental pajamas into the laundry basket, pulling on fresh jeans and her favourite cotton, grey sweatshirt, which has become more of a safety blanket than anything else. She drags her hands through her unkempt, desk-styled hair as way of a comb, and then picks up her phone. 

_ You're right Kate. Text them, and then all three of you come over here. It's time to start putting the pieces together.  _

The realization that Victoria Chase will be stepping into her dorm soon is strange motivation to clean it. While she waits, she drifts over to the windows and opens them, inhaling the crisp, fresh air deeply, telling herself that it's going to be okay. The front of the dorms is empty, save for Alyssa, cross-legged on her favourite bench reading a neon-colored paperback, and a few hungry squirrels here and there. Max tidies what she can off her desk and makes the bed she didn't end up sleeping in. She shoves her diary underneath her pillow and she waters Lisa, holding her leafy, green fingers lightly. 

In the midst of all of this, she catches herself wanting to call Nathan. She wants him here. Having to tell him about Dean had flipped some protective switch in her, and although she's glad she did it, watching the way his face had crumpled had all but torn her apart. Her fingers itch to call and find out if he's okay in the trembling aftermath, if he's dealing with it at all. She wants him to know that there are people gathering in her dorm to help him. 

A rap sounds on the door, and Max  startles . 

If Max felt like laughing, she probably would have, at the near-comical sight standing in her doorway. Victoria, her arms folded, dressed in yoga pants and a loose-flowing, floral-patterned top, her face flickering between shades of irritation and curiosity. Next to her, Warren balances four tall cups of coffee from the campus cart, and a forest-green t-shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the writing on the front reading  _ Come to the Math side, we have pi.  _ Kate stands front and centre, Sharpie markers lining the pocket of her cardigan, something wooden and rectangular tucked beneath her arm. 

"What's this about?" Victoria demands immediately. "Free periods are for  _ sleeping in _ ."

Max had kind of hoped that Kate would have already told them, and feels a soft blow in her stomach at the inevitability that she's the one that has to explain it all. But, in fairness, she guesses it's not something you can exactly sum-up over text. 

Max stands aside to let them enter - Kate pattering softly, Warren cheerfully striding, Victoria somehow managing to slouch with perfect posture - and then shuts the door. Kate produces what she has held under her arm. It's a corkboard, a big one, with push-pins already stuck into the spongy brown cork, ready to be used. Before she can ask about it, Warren's in front of her, clumsily passing her one of the hot drinks. 

"Thanks. This is just what I need," she says, the sweet scent of sugary cocoa filling her nose. 

Victoria's eyebrows scrunch when he hands her hers. "What is this?"

"Hot chocolate," Warren says affably. "A lot of people think it's only ever the kind of drink you can have at night, but actually, as a morning or middle-of-the-day beverage—"

"Spare me the analysis," Victoria interrupts. 

Kate is already setting up the corkboard, positioning it straight on the couch, on a height, so they can all see it clearly. 

"So...?" Victoria says, sinking down on Max's bed and staring disinterestedly. "Why are we here?"

Max shifts from one foot to the other, her hands clasped awkwardly in front of her. "Well... um..."

Kate shoots her her a confident smile, nodding.

There's no right place to start, so Max just dives right in. Her mouth feels incapable of closing, and thus her words burst their banks, spilling onto the floor and adding weight to the silence already hanging suspenseful over the room. She keeps her eyes fixed on the carpet as the story comes out, as the plan reveals itself. Mr. Prescott, Mr. Jefferson, the ring. The Dark Room. Prison. Dean. Her skin prickles with heated electricity and with every loose word, the stress upon her shoulders begins to crack and slip away, falling bricks and mortar.

When she reaches the part that Victoria knows—the part that Warren does not—the part about her visits and his steep incline from silence and detachment to bounding improvement; his insistence to help them, his manipulation by both Jefferson and his father; his overwhelming guilt and regret and sorrow. 

She leaves out the part about the kiss, though, her cheeks flushing at the memory. No one needs to know about that, just her and Nathan. Its feels sentimental, a shared little glow of  _ something _ . 

When she finally reaches the end, her insides feel weak and slippery, like soup, and she's admittedly kind of dizzy. The rattling metal box she'd kept those secrets in, that box feels scorched clean. Startlingly empty.

Victoria knew more than Warren did. Her face had only paled ashen and sickly when Max had revealed the existence of the ring. And yet, by the end, her face is as astonished as his, as though all of this is reaching her ears for the very first time.

Warren is the first to break the cumbersome silence. 

"Either my brain is fried from the six straight hours of Chemistry I did last night," he says, swallowing, "or you just said that you've been visiting Nathan Prescott." He stops, eyes bulging. "My books have been going to Nathan Prescott. Holy shit, Prescott is a  _ Baker _  nerd?"

Victoria spins in her seat, fixing him with an incredulous stare. "I'm sorry but, Max just told us that Mark Jefferson and Mr. Prescott were running some fucked-up photography ring together right from Arcadia Bay, and  _ that's  _ what you choose to focus on?" 

Kate bites her lip. "It's... a lot to digest." 

"So that's why you had me break into Wells' office," Warren says, the gears roaring to life behind his eyes. "That's why you were looking for whatever he had on file about Nathan's brother."

"You broke into Principal Wells' office?" Kate asks in disbelief. 

Warren nods. "But first I had to blow up the science room."

"You had to—  _ what? _ "

Max presses crescent-shapes into her palms. "You aren't mad?" she asks Warren weakly.

"Mad? About being tight with Nathan?" He hesitates, squirming a little in his seat. "Honestly? No. The guy always needed serious help. I guess I'm glad he's getting it." 

"Back when we had to sneak into Nathan's house," Victoria says, "you didn't know if Mr. Prescott was involved or not. But now he, like, definitely is? Because you need to be real fucking sure about this, Max—"

"You snuck into Nathan's house?" Warren interrupts, gaping at them both. "Damn, Max. You were going ninja with somebody else, too?"

"We didn't sneak in. Um, kind of, at least," Max answers defensively. She meets Victoria's gaze. "I'm one hundred per cent sure he's involved. Nathan said he's the ringleader."

"I feel sick," Victoria groans, suddenly green. 

"Max has been working with Nathan and his lawyer," Kate says. "Together, they found some solid evidence, but Carmin needs our help putting it all together. She's planning on ambushing Mr. Prescott at the trial, so that he won't have the time to prepare for her questions, or cover himself."

"Which is where we come in?" Victoria asks, "because, if so, I don't want to even  _ look _  like I'm fucking with Sean Prescott!" Her face flushes. "If he finds out—"

Max shakes her head quickly. "Victoria—"

"This is fucking crazy," Victoria says. "Don't you understand who this guy he is? What he could  _ do _  to you if he catches you?"

"Yes, of course, but—"

"He's going to find out. He has to. No one has ever been able to investigate him, because they end up mysteriously a hundred times richer and relocated to some tropical island, or— or no one hears from them at all—"

"Victoria—"

"There's no way I'm sacrificing my last few weeks at Blackwell to get involved with something as messed up as a ring, I mean, are you kidding? I—"

" _ Victoria _ ."

It comes out louder, and harsher, than Max expects, and she actually makes herself jump. Victoria colors again, bunching the bedsheets up tightly in both fists. 

Max takes a long, deep breath.

"I hear you," she says. "I know who he is, what he can do. I know that. But I— _ we _ —can't let what happened to Kate and those other girls happen again. Do you think Mr. Prescott will just stop now that Mr. Jefferson is going to prison?  _ Hell _  no."

Victoria is silent, staring petulantly at the carpet.

"Dean was the supplier, and when he died, Mr. Prescott wasn't devastated enough to stop himself from finding some other supplier. The ring went on. And if he really is the ringleader, then he's the one that needs to be taken down. To end it once and for all. Who knows what else he could be planning? Once you get a taste of power like that, power over other people, there's no coming back. There are always other photographers, there are always other bad, sick people who'd have no problem making money off this kind of thing—"

"We aren't scared of him," Kate interjects, and Victoria's eyes snap to hers in surprise. "And you shouldn't be, either. That's where he gets his power from, that's why he's been allowed to get away with  _ awful _  things like this. That's why those people you talked about end up rich on tropical islands. Because they're afraid. Because people are always too scared to stand up to him."

"But we're going to," Max adds, defiant. "Because sometimes, things happen and they end up being so much bigger than graduating from school and bigger than us in general," She takes a step forward, forcing Victoria to look up at her. Max's voice softens.  "This is a lot. I know it is, and I wish we could all get through these last couple of weeks with as much ease as possible. But I can't leave here knowing that I did nothing. That I let all of that shit continue. It's okay to be scared, but there's a time when you have to stop being scared and get your power back. We  _ need _  you with us on this, Victoria." She stares at her, hard. "And Nathan needs you." 

"I can't believe this is real," Victoria mutters.

"It is," Max answers. "I fucking wish it wasn't, but it is." 

Warren pushes his hair back slowly, as if nervous that the movement could shatter the palpable, tense air in the room. "You already know I'm in," he tells her quietly. "You didn't even have to ask."

Max smiles at him, a bloom of gratitude and affection in her chest. "Thanks, Warren."

Kate is looking at Victoria nervously, her head tilted to one side and her lip caught between her teeth. "Victoria?" she says. "Will you help us?"

Max gives her a level stare. Eventually, Victoria raises her head and returns it.

"Fine," she says. "I'll help."

Warren and Kate both grin at her. Slowly, Max becomes aware of a tangible stirring in the air, the stir of something finally clicking into place. 

"Okay then," Max says, a gentle smile creeping across her face. "Let's get started."

The connections, the threads, meeting in the centre like a spindly spider web. Time to unravel them, one by one.

One hour later, and the corkboard has been almost entirely smothered in clues, photographs and handwritten notes. Max stands with Kate, carefully arranging the information in an easy-to-follow, circular direction. Victoria flips through Frank's account book, doing her best to appear nonchalant but Max can spot the moments when the frays at her edges sneakily reveal themselves. Warren has stepped out for another round of hot chocolate and also to get something for them to eat, their stomachs ravenous with working so hard on a rainy Thursday morning. 

"I think we should do a timeline," Max suggests, "some of this is kind of jumbled."

Kate nods. She looks upbeat despite the obvious stress doing all of this must be placing on her. Her hair has come a little loose from her bun, with stray hairs falling in blonde curtains either side of her face. She grabs a clean sheet of paper from Max's printer and a pen, and arranges herself back on the arm of the couch. 

"December 2008," Max begins. "Dean was fifteen. He starts buying weed off Frank."

Kate scribbles it down. Max turns and hooks Victoria's gaze. "When did Dean first buy ketamine?"

Victoria flips through several pages, her eyes flicking back and forth over the shabby, coffee-stained pages. "November 2009," she answers. "And the amount he bought kept going up, all the way to... April, 2010."

"Max!" Kate gasps, her eyes popping, "I remember that I read— the first girl, the first folder, it was from November 2009!"

Max's exhale is a rush of prickly heat. "There's our first connection. The first victim of the ring was dosed in November 2009, the exact same time Dean began buying ketamine. He was  _ definitely _  supplying Jefferson. Sending it to wherever he was at that time."

"Fuck, this doesn't make any sense!" Victoria hisses. "I knew him. He might've been down for smoking weed, but  _ ketamine? _  He wasn't the type of guy to let somebody like Jefferson manipulate him, either. I mean, he was a kiss-ass with his family, but someone like Jefferson...?" She trails off, her breath hitching. 

"Nathan couldn't believe it, either," Max says with a sigh. "I guess Dean had two sides to him."

Kate's hand slides swiftly across the page as she continues to map out the timeline. "Jefferson makes more folders from November until April," she says.

"And in April 2010, a lot of crap happens," Max finishes. "Dean is freaking out at school, he has drugs in his locker, and he nearly gets axed from the swim team."

"Guilt?" Kate suggests.

"Maybe." Max frowns. "Towards the end of the month, he goes to Frank looking to buy his  _ entire _  stash of ketamine, but Frank won't sell it all. He gives him an average amount."

"Why would he want all of it?" Kate wonders. "Jefferson was careful. The ring wasn't kidnapping girls often. It's not like they were using up all the ketamine quickly."

The door thumps open and Warren returns, his hair damp from the drizzling rain. As well as the drinks, he's brought with him a large box of donuts from the 7-Eleven at the back of campus. 

"The good detectives always have donuts, it's like they're good luck or something" he says loudly, dropping the box onto Max's bed. "Behold, our very own lucky donuts!"

"Oh my God." Victoria deadpans. Her eyebrows cock at the strip of green-white frosting coating Warren's upper lip. "Get hungry on the way home, Graham?"

"It was a long drive, Chase." He grabs a donut with chocolate frosting from the box and moves to sit at Max's desk. "Find anything?"

"We're making a timeline," Max answers, reaching for the drink he brought her and taking a long sip to ease her scratchy, dry throat. "Okay, so, not long after Dean tries to buy Frank's whole stash, he calls Officer Berry, saying that he needs help. Officer Berry turns his phone off, and Dean calls back and leaves a voicemail that's  _ super _  sketchy." 

Victoria looks away. "And a day later, he's dead."

"Mr. Prescott covers up the fact he died of a ketamine overdose," Max goes on, "and Arcadia Bay is none the wiser."

"There isn't another folder until the end of 2011," Kate says, "and only two more in 2012." 

"Maybe they struggled to find a new supplier?" Warren remarks. "Crap, that's  _ serious. _  But how does Mr. Prescott come into this?"

"That's the problem," Max says, with mild annoyance. "There's nothing that really links him to the folders pre-2013. We can say that he's connected because his son was supplying the drugs, but there's no actual proof for him. A couple of construction invoices aren't going to work."

"Let's keep going with the timeline," Kate suggests. "The bunker is built at the end of 2012, and Mr. Jefferson takes up his teaching position at the start of the new semester in 2013."

"And Rachel Amber goes missing that April," Warren says.

"That bunker was built specifically for Jefferson," Max says fiercely. "I'm sure of it. Mr. Prescott must have used it as some kind of incentive to get Jefferson to come back to Arcadia."

"Gross," Victoria mutters. 

"The ring must have been getting bigger or something," Kate murmurs. "Maybe Mr. Prescott brought Mr. Jefferson to Arcadia, and gave him that bunker, so that he could keep a closer eye on running things. Running it when Jefferson was in another state, especially if they lost their supplier, must have been too... chaotic." 

"Or," Max says, "Maybe Mr. Prescott got Jefferson to come to Arcadia for Nathan. So he could use him in the Dark Room, just like Dean."

But Victoria is shaking her head. "This doesn't make any sense. Dean wasn't into photography. Like,  _ at all _ . Why would he get involved with the Dark Room in the first place? Just because he  _ liked _  what they were doing?" She shudders. "He  _ wasn't _  a creep. Was he? Oh, God—"

"Dean probably did it for the same reason Nathan did," Max returns. "To impress their father. Mr. Prescott messed with both their heads, I'm sure he did the same to Dean. Dean was his favourite, he must have been made to think that he'd only stay the favourite if he helped Sean out with the..." She makes a face. "Family business."

"I guess," Victoria says, but she still doesn't look convinced.

Warren rests his chin on his hand. "So we need to find something that connects Sean Prescott to this photography ring before 2013? Aside from Dean?"

Max nods. 

Kate pins the timeline up on the corkboard, fidgeting with the pen in her hand. "Anyone... have any ideas?"

The silence that follows is a little discouraging. Warren is forcefully chewing on one of his treasured lucky donuts, as if the answer lies waiting beneath the thick, sugary coating. 

"Don't worry," Kate says, smiling around the room. "Look at all we did so far. This is a great start. We'll find something."

Max checks the screen of her phone and sees that Victoria and Kate's free periods are nearly up. She picks up the corkboard and settles it, concealed and hidden, behind her couch. "Yeah, good job everyone," she says, trying to sound confident. "We'll regroup again soon.  Until  then, we should all do our own research."

"Fine," Victoria says, getting to her feet. "But make sure none of you get caught. I'll seriously deny ever speaking to you."

Kate and Victoria head out the door, talking quietly amongst themselves, but Max catches Warren's arm and tugs him back inside.

"Wait. I need to talk to you."

"What's up, Mad Max?"

She shuts the door and leans over to scoop up her journal. She flips to the latest string of pages and instantly, the two  polaroids  from yesterday flutter out and gently down to the carpet. She bends quickly, at the same time Warren does, but he's faster. 

He ignores the other photo, hands going straight for the one of Nathan, ripped down the middle. 

Max flushes. 

"Oh," Warren says, and then is quiet for a tortuously long moment. "I guess you really are... friends."

"Warren--"

"No, it's cool. He looks different." Warren stands, still staring down at the picture in his hand. "Happier. Less likely to go off on somebody." His eyes flicker briefly to her face. "Uh, so are you and Nathan Prescott...?"

Max goes to say no. But then, she hesitates. It's that brief catch of her breath and the stutter in her eyes on him that leads Warren into the complex details of the truth, into that strange place where Nathan and Max hover, not quite friends and not quite something more. 

"Oh," he says. He smiles but it's strangely weary. "That's... cool. Good for you. Uh." He shifts in place. "Is... that what you wanted to talk to me about?"

"No! Um, no. That's not the photo I even wanted to show you." She swaps the photo of Nathan for the photo she took on the bus yesterday. "I wanted to ask you if you've ever seen this before. The words."

"Et in Arcadia ego," Warren reads. He blinks. "Well, it's familiar. Isn't it written in a couple of places around campus? Like, graffiti?"

"It was next to my seat on the bus back from St. Dymphna's," Max says, barely able to register that those words just came casually out of her mouth, to  _ Warren _ . He knows now, she doesn't have to hide anymore. "Do you know what it means?"

"Uh, my Latin's pretty rusty, but it looks like it has something to do with death."

" _ Death? _ " Max parrots, her stomach clenching tightly. 

"I can't really remember  _ exactly _ , but this means something to do with the cycle of death. I'll do some mad Googling later though and let you know what I find." He folds his arms, curious. "Is this to do with the investigation?"

"No. There's just been some... weird signs around here lately."

"Signs?"

"Warren, have you anywhere to be right now?"

"Not for another hour." He tipped his head to the side and gave her one of his soft, inquisitive stares. "Max, what's going on?"

"You... might want to sit down for this one."

She tells him everything, and for the second time that morning it feels like her pounding heart could leap straight out of her chest. The adrenalin pumps through her, a side-effect of the crazy story weaving from her mouth. She tells him about the time travel, the old realities, remembering how she once did this for the first time in a darkened, tornado-assaulted diner. Warren had looked at her the same as now. Gentle, and yeah, there's that alarming casual acceptance again. She's less nervous because of it. She pauses every now and then to let him ask questions, clenching the bedsheets between her fingers as Warren sits across from her and looks completely at ease about what she's telling him. He never stops her or admits he doesn't believe it. He's like a sponge, absorbing what she's saying, and holding onto it with purpose. 

His expression only loses its glaze of calm when she tells him about Jefferson kidnapping her, about Chloe's countless deaths, about the voicemail of a terrified boy seconds, maybe minutes, before he was killed. Warren's hand twitches in the small space between them like he wants to reach out for her. She thinks she'd let him, if he tried. The universe feels too big and too hollow right now, and she wants something to hold onto. 

"How is this not blowing your mind right now?" Max whispers, her eyes watery. 

"Believe me, it is. Fuck. But..." He shakes himself. "Time travel isn't an impossibility. Scientifically, there's been talk about it around black holes, the theory of relativity...I've never heard of somebody being able to just  _ do it _ , though." He pauses. "Can you still rewind time?"

"I... don't know. After I let Nathan shoot Chloe, I was too scared to try again. I was worried that if I even went back a second that I'd change something, or piss off the universe." She leans forward. "That's what's confusing me, though. Lately, it's like Arcadia is getting— I don't know, restless."

"Restless?"

"This crazy weather, you hitting that deer, fucking  _ weird _  graffiti like this," Max says fiercely, "this is the kind of thing... I saw before the storm came."

"Are you serious? You don't think another one is coming, do you?"

"No," Max says, but she hates how it comes out unsure. "That would be impossible. I didn't use my powers, I  _ haven't _  used them. They might still be there, but I swear, any storm that happened couldn't be because of me. There's no way."

"Maybe it's not because of you."

"What?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. But if you're here, and all of that crap happened to you, I guess nothing is impossible." He grabs impatiently at his hair, staring down at the photo clutched in his hands. "This is huge, Max. I'll try and find out what I can about this, and get back to you about what I find."

"You don't have to," Max answers. "Maybe we should actually leave the universe alone for once."

"Not if it's still not leaving  _ you _  alone." He meets her eyes and swallows. "And, by the way, I'm really sorry that you had to go through all of that. I wish I knew, you know, before? He scoots across the space and coils his arms around her. "I'm sorry."

Max hugs him back, tight. "You don't have to be sorry." She pulls away and smiles. "And for the record, other-reality Warren was just as awesome and helpful as you are."

"Other-reality Warren," he says, with a dazed expression. "Jesus, that's so trippy." 

"Thank you for believing me."

"Shit, thanks for telling me." He slides off her bed and moves almost reluctantly to the door. "Man, going to algebra after all that is seriously anti- climactic ."

Max chuckles. "Tell me about it."

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  


Maybe it's all of the truth she spilled from her lungs the day before, and her renewed confidence from Warren's easy acceptance of it, but on Friday, Max decides to tell Nathan about the bathroom.

The hospital's ID flashes on the screen of her phone as she sits at her desk, spine arched and stiff from three hours of procrastination on the computer, mingled with some actual studying. It's a Friday night, and she truly feels like the only person in the dormitories, her own breath loud in the quiet. She feels sleepy and alone. But when she spots the number of the incoming call, her mouth stretches into a smile. Something inside of her, something that feels warm and encouraging, tells her that this is the moment. Nathan's going to believe her, and it's all going to be okay. 

This immovable sense of bravery isn't going to last forever. It might not even last the weekend. She's going to tell him everything now, while the feeling grips her, when she is more certain than ever before that he's going to understand. 

When she answers, though, the opening speech already on her lips as she hits the '1' key right after the automated call acceptance voice chimes in, Nathan beats her to it.

His presence on the other line is a rising wave, engulfing her, evaporating the loneliness. 

But his voice, low and tense, curls something worried in the pit of her stomach. 

"Hey," he says roughly. "It's me."

"I know. How many calls from hospitals do you think I get?" Max jokes.

But he doesn't laugh. Max's lips press into a concerned line. 

"Nathan?"

"Sorry. I probably shouldn't have called."

"Why? What's wrong?" 

"It's Harry."

Max swivels in her chair, her hand tightening on her phone. "Harry? Is he okay?"

"He's fine." Nathan sighs hard, exasperated. "It's about yesterday. He never showed up."

"What?" Max gets up and starts pacing around, suddenly too jittery to stay in her seat. "For his birthday yesterday, right?" Nathan makes  a  noise of affirmation. "Maybe... maybe he had to cancel?"

"My  _ parents _  cancel," Nathan spits. "My brother never cancels."

Max tries to picture him, his face hard, slouched in the hallway and glaring curses at the floor. 

"This is  _ her. _  Harry bailing on me yesterday, it's got her brand of passive-aggressive bullshit written all over it." 

"Her? Her who?"

"My fucking mother," Nathan snaps. "After you left on Wednesday, she called to give me this week's lecture, but I was so goddamn wound up after what you told me about Dean that I... I bitched at her, I guess."

Max pales. "You didn't tell her—"

"About Dean? Hell no. I just went off a little. Looking back, I know I shouldn't have, but I didn't know she'd keep Harry from coming--"

"Will she let him visit you this week?"

"I don't know. Depends on how long she decides to sulk." He groans. "This was what it was like growing up with her. She pushes every fucking button you have, you end up going off, and she twists that somehow and makes  _ you _  feel guilty. And you're always the one that ends up apologizing. It's horseshit. But it's whatever. I'm not going to apologize. Not anymore."

Max sinks slowly down onto the couch, lip caught between her teeth. "I'm sorry," she says.

"What?" Now he sounds amused. "Why the fuck are you sorry?"

"If I didn't tell you about Dean... I shouldn't have left, after dumping all of it on you."

"No," Nathan says firmly. "You should have told me and I'm, like, endlessly relieved that you did. Seriously, Max. Don't feel even a shred of shitty about it." 

She pulls one of the couch pillows onto her lap, tugging absently at a loose thread. "I wish I could stay longer than a hour."

"Yeah," says Nathan, his voice quiet again. "Me too."

She twists around and peers over the top of the couch, down to where the corkboard rests against the wall. Pinning the phone between her shoulder and ear, she bends over to drag it up. "We've been working on putting all of the evidence together," she tells him.

"We?"

Patches of heat flutter across the skin of her neck. ""I've... not exactly being doing this alone."

"Oh, yeah, I know. You're helping Carmin."

"Yeah, but... it's not just her." She swallows. "...Kate Marsh is helping. And so are Victoria and Warren."

She wishes she could see his face. The ensuing silence is heavy, drying out her mouth. Her breath rattles in her throat. 

Eventually, he mutters out an astonished, "...Kate?"

"Yeah. And Warren and Victoria."

"Kate  _ Marsh? _ " His voice sounds closer, pressed right up against the receiver. 

"Yeah," Max says, heart racing. "She wants to help, and she is. She put together a timeline, so that we could try and—"

"Kate Marsh?" Nathan interrupts. "Why— Why the hell would she want to help me?"

"Nathan—"

"I hurt her," he says. "I should have taken her to the hospital, but I didn't. I took her— I fuckin' took her to—"

"Kate is trying to move past it, and she's trying to forgive you. She understands why you did what you did, and she wants to make sure that it never happens to anyone else. That's what we all want, isn't it?"

"Max," Nathan says, and that's it. Just her name.

"It's okay," she says, a little louder. "She's actually said that she'd like to visit you."

"She can," Nathan says quickly. "Tell her— fuck, tell her she can. I'm here, well, I'm here all the time."

"She still needs some time," Max answers, "but she knows she's welcome, and she appreciates it."

"Yeah," he swallows hard. "Yeah."

"So we have a lot of evidence," Max says, "but before we give it all to Carmin, we're just going through it and making sure there's nothing we missed."

"Tell me," Nathan says. "I want to help."

Max nods. "I'll just mention a couple of things, and if you know anything about them, anything at all, let me know." She pulls the corkboard across her lap, the wooden frame digging into the planes of bare, freckled skin where her pajama shorts end. 

"Max, wait," Nathan says, and she actually smiles, like he can see her. "That— This means a lot to me. Kate, and— and everyone. Tell them thanks from me."

"Of course. Ready?"

He exhales, and she swears she can feel it ghost across her cheek. "Yeah. Go on."

Nathan hadn't known about Dean's hidden 'real' school reports from 2010, but he seems unsurprised. "4.0 GPA, my ass," are his exact words. He falls quiet when Max mentions Frank's account book, and even quieter still when she once again broaches the topic of the voicemail. 

"What happened between your family and Officer Berry?" Max asks him. "He said that you helped him."

Nathan pauses, thinking. "It was a few years ago, when Dean was still around. Berry had a sick kid, one who needed some life-saving operation. He went to my father for help, and Dad paid all of the medical bills so that the kid could get the surgery."

"Damn. That was... nice of him?"

Nathan chuckles coldly. "He only did it because Berry was a cop. My father never helps anyone unless they can help him back. Berry's kid got better,  _ and _  they were out of debt, so Dad was able to hold it over their heads. He convinced Berry to look the other way if any of us ever got into trouble."

"Oh."

"You wanna know how my father sees the world?" Nathan asks angrily. "Everybody has a function. He finds out what it is, and he uses it against them."

Seeing people as functions. It feels robotic and cold, but makes perfect sense. Max wonders if that is how people like Sean Prescott can do the things they do and not feel accountable. When the world is something malleable and something to manipulate, it must be easy. Discarding people, playing them, viewing them like pieces on a worldwide chessboard: it's monstrous. 

"What was your function?" Max asks softly. 

Nathan swallows, nervous. "Max."

"Was it to drug the victims?" She knows the answer, of course, has the evidence. But she needs to hear him say it. 

"When I think about it, about what I did," Nathan says lowly, "Max, fuck, you gotta know, it's like another person. It doesn't feel like me. I was so—"

"It's okay," Max says. 

Nathan takes a couple breaths, shaky ones that rattle down the line. "But I guess it doesn't matter, right?" he says. "I still did it. There's no getting away from that. I'll have to live with it for the rest of my life. There's a lot I'm going to have to live with."

Something pokes out between his words, the anxiety of holding something back. It makes Max think of Carmin, of what she said; of her hunch, about Nathan—and about what happened to Rachel. There is more here, and trying to find out what it is feels like wading into murky, waist-deep water. The answer is somewhere beneath the surface, just out of reach. 

"I don't understand something," Max says. "If it was your job to drug the girls, to bring them to the Dark Room," she inhales, lets the silence grow, "how did you end up killing Rachel?"

The quiet on the other end of the line blazes, a fire unchecked. She imagines him in the blindingly bright corridor, stunned as he clutches the phone, wondering if he heard her right. 

Eventually, he says, "...What?"

"What were you trying to do?" Max clarifies. She knows that she probably sounds pushy, but she needs to hear this and the only way to do is to push. She has the version given to her by a manic Jefferson. But it's evident that Nathan's version is the truth. He's going to tell her. Once he knows she's not backing down, he's going to tell her everything. 

"How did Rachel die?"

"I told you," Nathan says roughly, "I didn't kill Rachel."

"But you lied."

The words hit their target. Nathan seems to crumple on the other end, his voice changing, laced with a sudden desperation.

"You d-didn't believe me?" 

"At first I did. But the more I thought about it, the less it made sense." Max chews on her lip, despite feeling a swirl of bravery. "If you lied because you thought I'd judge you or hate you, you're wrong. I understand why you lied, but you shouldn't have. I... know a little about keeping secrets and, in the end, the silence you hold ends up destroying more than what you say out loud."

"Max."

"You know me better than that," she continues. "I could never hate you, Nathan."

"I," Nathan grasps frantically in the silence, searching for words. "I-I don't deserve it. Shit." He breaks off, sighing heavily. "I did lie. I lied. I'm sorry."

"So tell me what really happened."

"Max."

"Tell me," she insists. "I know you didn't do it on purpose."

"Hell no," he rasps. "Of course not."

"So what happened?" 

A long moment of quiet, flanked by the soft and anxious sound of his breath. "Don't hate me."

She shakes her head. "I can't."

"Jefferson came to Blackwell last January," Nathan begins. "My father introduced us, and said he was going to teach me about photography, that I was going to learn a lot." He grunts. "I figured he was just another asshole my dad was paying to babysit me. I wasn't taking my meds, which were the wrong ones anyway, and I think from that first meeting, Jefferson could tell I was...  _ weak _ . He started to tell me about his photography, how his thing was about capturing innocence, how it was the highest form of talent and how he could show me how to do it like him. He said my parents would be proud."

"How were you mentally?" Max asks.

"Bad," Nathan admits. "Really bad. It felt like my fucking brain was going to leak out of my ears sometimes. I was angry all the time, and sick, and... I started having a hard time with reality. You know, like, telling stuff apart? It's kind of hard to explain."

Max nods along. 

"When he took me to the Dark Room for the first time, he showed me the folders he had done before, and he said that I could be just like him. He made it sound like the models knew about it, that drugging them before he took their pictures was something they aware of because they 'understood' the art or whatever the fuck. I don't remember finding any of it weird. I was too out of my mind. I heard it enough that it made sense to me. And then, around March..." 

Max's stomach gives a greasy twist. "Rachel."

"He talked about her a lot. Fuck, all the time. Ever since she came to Blackwell, the creep had an obsession with her. Said she'd be his masterpiece. And I remember wondering what he was waiting for. I remember being... confused. He said that she wanted to be a model, he said that she'd pose for him. I thought he meant that he'd asked and she was cool with it, or whatever. I found out later that he really meant she didn't have a choice. That he was going to get her no matter what." 

A shiver prickles coldly up Max's spine. Her knuckles clench, white and furious.

"I listened to the same spiel for weeks, months," Nathan goes on. "I remember thinking that, if I did it, if I took her picture, he'd be impressed. He'd tell my father. Me and Rachel were... we were friends. I convinced myself that it would be easy. My head was messed up. I convinced myself that the models knew about the drugs, the reality for me became that Rachel would be down, as fucked up as that sounds. It was like... it was like I took myself out of reality. I filled the parts that felt funny with what I thought made sense at the time." 

"What happened?" Max whispers. 

"She called me one day, and asked if I wanted to hang out," he says slowly. "She said that she'd meet me at American Rust, that old junkyard. So I took a bottle from the Dark Room and my camera, and I met her there. We hung out for a few hours. We drank... a lot, and we talked. I can't remember what about, but I remember feeling like my fucking brain was underwater. But she was happy. In a good mood." He falls quiet, and when he speaks again, his voice is broken. "And that's the last thing I remember. I remember her laughing."

"You drugged her?"

Silence again. 

"Nathan?"

Suddenly, his breath bursts forth, shaky inhales. "I-I woke up in the Dark Room, on the couch. Rachel was tied-up, lying on the ground. I couldn't remember driving us there, but obviously, I did. She— she wasn't moving." 

Max's stomach is convulsing again. "She... was dead?"

Nathan sniffs. He's not crying, but she wouldn't be surprised if he started to. "She just looked like she was sleeping, Max."

Max grips onto the nearest pillow hard, wishing she had something more solid, her chest spinning with a thousand different things.

"I felt fucked-up when I woke up, kind of hungover. Jefferson was there, standing over me, and..."

"Wait, Jefferson was there?"

Nathan makes an affirmative sound. His voice has dropped again, going from low to shrill to cracking in between. "He showed me the bottle that had been in my pocket, and the needle. He showed me my camera, and the pictures on it. Photos of her, in the junkyard, unconscious that I must've taken. He said I dosed her, but I did too much. H-He said--"

"He said you killed her."

"I know I did," Nathan rasps. "I fucking know I did. But I can't - fuck, I never wanted to - we were  _ friends. _ "

"What happened next?" Max asks softly. 

"Jefferson... he said he'd protect me. He said people thought that Rachel was flighty, that they'd think she left for Los Angeles. He wasn't angry or upset, he was... he was fine. Calm."

"Nathan..."

"I lied to you," he says quickly. "I was scared you'd think I was crazy. Well, fuck,  _ crazier _ . Who kills someone and doesn't remember?"

"I would've understood. You didn't have to lie."

"I know that now," Nathan murmurs. "I guess I'm just not used to people... listening to me." He hums. "I'm not going to lie anymore, to anyone. And I'm going to stop trying to justify what I did. I have to fix this."

"You will fix it," Max urges. "You're going to help us put Mr. Jefferson and your father away for good." 

"Yeah," he says, but for some reason, he doesn't sound convinced. Something lingers beneath the ebb and tide of the word, and Max wants to call him on it. The words come, rising up, but he gets there first. 

"I missed you today."

Max feels a warm, soft blow to her stomach. "Me too," she says softly. "It feels weird, doing all of this sleuthing without you."

He hums, low. 

It's her turn now, Max thinks. He's come clean. It's time for her to do the same. A memory of the bathroom comes, slapping itself aggressively across her mind's eye, chanting  _ tell tell tell tell _ . On the other end of the line, Nathan sounds drained, but he must be feeling the prickling heat off his shoulders that Max felt, from telling the truth. He must be scared. She wishes she could be there with him. She wishes she could nestle her head in the crook of his shoulder and feel close to him. 

"Nathan." There they are, the words, the  _ I was there, I saw you and Chloe _ , hurtling up her throat. 

"Yeah?"

The next breath tingles in her throat. 

"I—"

"Aw, shit." 

She falls silent, her hand gripping the phone hard. "Nathan?"

"Sorry," he says, sounding irritated. "Out of time."

Those have to be Max's least favourite words in all of human history. Her chest concaves, her heart deflates, and the words vanish from the tip of her tongue.

"Oh," she says, struggling to mask the disappointment in her tone. "Well, that's okay. I'll talk to you again soon."

"Yeah."

Max stares at the phone in her hands for a while after she's hung up, the thing still warm. Nathan's voice still crackles in her ear, and she wishes, for the umpteenth time that week, that they had more time than what always seems to be pushed at them.

 

 

* * *

 

  
  
  


The rain lets up enough the following morning for Max to drag herself out of her room and go on a walk. She doesn't get very far, doing a sleepy shuffle that just loops around campus and back, but somehow, it's enough. It fills her lungs with refreshing, crisp air and she sweats in the damp humidity. She walks with her earbuds in, inhaling the rain, feel the blustery wind gush through her hair and wake her up, gentle as an arm around the shoulder. It is so quiet and sanguine that Max feels the strangest and yet most soothing sensation of having the entire town of Arcadia Bay to herself. She can go anywhere, do anything, and not have to worry about bumping into anybody that shakes a memory loose from the past—or the future. There are no finals to study for, and no scary impending future to agonizingly plan. 

Last night, her mom had forwarded her several links to universities, both in Seattle and around it. Max clicked on each one distractedly and had acted intrigued on the phone with her, mumbling something about photomedia in the University of Washington. Max had been non- committal , just trying to throw her mom off the scent and make it sound as if she hadn't been spending the past few weeks procrastinating in a pile of pizza crust and ignored textbooks, but her mom had been  _ so _  excited. She told her dad, who this morning, sent Max an enthusiastic text—a longer one than he'd ever usually send, with  _ emojis _ —suggesting that she come home some weekend so they could all drive up and do a campus tour. 

The course  _ does _  sound awesome, the type of thing that normally she definitely would have gone for, were her head not caught up in different things. The university itself is gorgeous, all historic buildings and pink trees that resemble candy floss, and each one of the photographs online fills her lungs and chest with a surprising, giddy wonder. It feels... right. It feels like the one thing she'd be talking incessantly about to her parents, if she had been focused on this as much as Warren or the others. 

But Blackwell had been something she had talked incessantly about once, too. She'd filled her head with sun-drenched images of her sitting in a radiant classroom, under the skilled eye of  _ the _  Mark Jefferson, having all of her wildest photographic dreams come true. Similar images try to come to life when she pictures herself at Washington, but it's different now. The classroom isn't so sunlit. She imagines herself sitting alone, a gray landscape behind her, a little lost and a lot homesick. What if the ghosts of Arcadia follow her there, to college, and it all ends up being the same tumultuous cycle, over and over again, of being reminded, of remembering, of losing and feeling that  _ gnawing _  ache. The last time she immersed herself completely in the fantasy of a new school, of the possibilities it could bring, everything had pretty much gone unapologetically to shit. She's afraid being excited for somewhere like Washington could make that happen again. She could fool herself and be horrifically wrong; she's been thinking about what Nathan said, about his family being cursed—she's half-considering the idea that Arcadia might have cursed  _ her _  in the same way. 

Nonetheless, she prints down several sheets worth of information on the photomedia degree and the university, straight from the website, and takes them on the walk with her in her messenger bag. Just walking around with them feels like progress, even if she never sits down and goes through them diligently with a highlighter, mapping out all of the exciting possibilities that could, or could most certainly not, await her.

When she returns to the dorms, she takes a seat on one of the frigidly cold benches, using her jacket as cover from the damp, and she takes them out. She smooths the crinkles out in the pages and runs her eyes over the candy floss trees, and wonders if whether this is it, if this is her first foray into adulthood. 

She doesn't feel much like an  adult . She's felt as helpless as a small infant lately. She wishes someone could organize all of this for her, or just point a magic and all-knowing finger at the perfect school. 

Somewhere nearby, a door creaks loudly open and a pair of boots slap wetly into a puddle. Max raises her head, just in time to spot Samuel emerging from his shed in a rainjacket, the touristy-kind you get at Disneyland, clear-plastic and decorated with tiny raindrops. He carries a broom, probably on his way to sweep up the swirling piles of leaves littering the front campus. 

"Hi Samuel," she calls.

"Hello, Max." He moves over, eyes dropping to the paper in her hands. "You shouldn't be studying out in the cold."

"Oh, I'm not studying. Not really." She shrugs. "I was just trying to get my head together about this whole graduating thing. You know, colleges and all of that scary stuff."

"I see. You seem troubled, Max."

"I guess I am. It's all just a little... unreal. I didn't expect the future to get here so quickly."

"Time has a way of creeping up on us," Samuel agrees. "But I believe that you will make the best choice for yourself, Max."

"I hope so too. I wish someone could just tell me what to do, though." She sighs and looks up at him. "Um, are you busy right now? I actually have some questions for you, but if you're rushed off your feet—"

"Samuel is always here to talk," he tells her kindly. "What's on your mind?"

"I wanted to ask you about Dean. Dean Prescott." 

"You've asked me about him before," Samuel comments.

"His story is just such a mystery," Max replies, nodding. "And I can't help but feel like he's connected to a lot of things around here."

"You'd be right. The night that he passed on, I felt something odd in the air."

"Did you see him?" Max asks. "He died at home, but he was at Blackwell for a while. Around here, actually. The dorms."

"Samuel didn't see him, but the squirrels did. In the morning, they came whispering about him. Like they always do."

Max bites her lip. She's not so sure ' _ the squirrels saw him! _ ' is the kind of concrete evidence that Carmin could present  in  court.

"Did the... um, squirrels, say if he was acting weird?"

And there, Max thinks, is a question I never thought I'd have to ask.

"He seemed sad. Like he'd had his heart broken." 

Max frowns. "What?"

Samuel tilts his head back and squints up at the sky, his glasses misting up. "More rain. You should get inside." 

"Wait, Samuel," she slips off the bench, gathering her things and straightening, "how is Dean connected to all of this?"

Samuel smiles. It's a strange smile, offering no answers. "Max, I told you once before that you were on the right path. You still are. You have to stay on it, even when things appear very difficult. You'll eventually understand what Arcadia wants you to see."

"What it wants me to...?"

But he's already leaving, his steps slow and measured. At the steps, he turns back and his eyes, warm with something indecipherable, fall on her again.

"Another thing, before Samuel forgets," he says, "I came across some new graffiti, over by those bushes," he points towards the thick shrubbery at the side of Wells' office. 

Max frowns at him, confused. Why is he telling her this?

"I have to paint over it soon," says Samuel. "If Max wanted to see it, now would be the best time."

And with that, he walks away, heading through the arch and off towards front campus, leaving Max alone. 

She stands there for a moment, perplexed. Somewhere behind her, the squirrels twitch out their squeaks, streaking over the wet grass like they are playing a game of tag. 

Max hitches her bag up her shoulders and moves forward, crossing to the other side of the quad, to where the bushes sit, heavy and glimmering with rainwater. 

She sinks down onto the balls of her feet and balances there. Something is written low on the concrete wall, barely visible behind the brambly branches. Reaching forward cautiously, Max parts the obstruction, revealing the writing beneath.

She's not sure she has ever seen this handwriting before. It's not like she personally memorized every inch of graffiti around this place, because that would take all day and she's not  _ that _  much of a procrastinator... and yet. She thinks she'd remember this one.

The words are almost cut into the wall, etched in deep with a thick, drippy marker that is slightly smudged, from rain or somebody's hand, she's not sure. But despite this forcefulness, the message doesn't look angry. It looks almost... desperate. Someone wrote this in a blind panic.

 

_ you will hear of a dwelling-place in the heavens, above the earth, that shall fall with a great crash. it will appear as a blue star. very soon after this, the ceremonies of my people will cease.  _

 

Fumbling past the college papers, Max finds her camera. She takes the photo and stands, suddenly aware of the hair on her arms and neck, standing straight up in uniformed attention. A shiver shoots down her spine. 

Why does it suddenly feel like she's being watched?

 

* * *

 

 

"So," says Ms. Owens, "You are upset about Joyce and David leaving Arcadia."

"Of course I am." Max frowns. Only ten minutes into her appointment, and she estimates that she's already felt more than a dozen flashes of irritation. "They're like family to me."

"But you're leaving too," Ms. Owens replies coolly. "You're graduating soon, off to college or to travel, to a new chapter in your life. Why would it matter to you that Chloe's parents are leaving when even if they were staying here, you wouldn't have seen them anyway?"

"Because," Max says, a little hotly. "I just— it's hard to explain."

"Well, go ahead."

She sighs. "Joyce has always been in Arcadia. It's crazy for me to even picture her somewhere else, in a different house. One that isn't the house that is practically my second home. My best memories are from that house."

"Do you resent Joyce's decision to leave?"

"No, I don't  _ resent _  her." The word sounds too negative, too angry. 

"I didn't say her, I said her decision."

"I mean..." Max looks away, to the rain hitting the windows at slow and fast intervals. "I guess. A little bit."

"Could it be," Ms. Owens begins, flipping to a new page of her notebook, "that what you're actually resentful of, is not the fact David and Joyce are physically moving, but that they are essentially moving on?"

Max stops. She feels two spots of heat clamber up her face. "I'm not angry because they're moving on," she says quickly. "That's awful. Of course I want them to move on."

"Of course you want them to be happy. But does it feel like they are leaving you behind?" 

Max's stomach flips uneasily. 

"I don't just mean physically, by moving to another state," Ms. Owens explains, "but you are still stuck in your own grief, Max. You have come a long way and I don't doubt you will go even further, but in terms of moving on, you aren't there yet. You know that. You aren't angry that Chloe's family are leaving, you're angry that they appear to have made enough peace with their grief to leave a place as important to them as Arcadia. You're feeling a natural sense of being left behind emotionally as well as physically."

"They lost their daughter," Max says roughly. "It's not like they're over it."

"You're not hearing me." Ms. Owens shakes her head, but her eyes are kind. "Grief, as we've discussed before, is a process. Joyce and David have reached the point where they are content enough with themselves and content enough with dealing with their grief that they are able to move on in a healthy way. This move is  _ healthy _ ."

Max says nothing. Her fingers fidget on her lap. 

"You've talked to me before about your anxiety over the future," Ms. Owens adds, "and it's clear that, at this point in time, you don't feel ready to leave Arcadia. The fact that Joyce and David can... isn't it possible that your emotions about this move have more to do with  _ you _ , and what you're going through, than them?"

"I just feel pressured," Max says weakly, hating how brittle her voice sounds. "Everybody knows exactly where they want to go to college, what they want to do and... I don't."

Ms. Owens nods reassuringly. "This is a pivotal moment in your life, and it would have been terrifying anyway, even if the trauma of the past year hadn't happened. But Max, on the subject of going forward, when it comes to looking towards your future and making your decisions..." Ms. Owens leans forward, her notebook suddenly ignored. "I want you to really understand something important."

Max meets her eyes reluctantly, her face still hot. 

"Chloe," Ms. Owens says, "is not a place. She isn't Arcadia Bay. You aren't abandoning her by leaving here soon."

Max gazes up at the ceiling, her eyes opening a little bit more, because that's how she usually stops herself from crying. The tears are there, struggling to poke through the corners of her stinging eyes. An awful, heavy sensation has spread across her chest. 

"Chloe is everywhere, she walks with you," Ms. Owens goes on, "and I'm not saying that from some religious, afterlife-believing point of view. I'm talking about  _ experiences _ . I'm talking about every emotion you ever felt when you were with her. The memories that you just told me about, the ones you made in her house, with her family, with her, they will never die. They shaped you and they still belong to you, and they will always be with you."

Her lower lip is trembling, and she pierces it with her teeth to try and stop it. She feels her hands starting to shake, clammy and twitchy on her lap. She can't look at Ms. Owens, she won't. 

"When David and Joyce leave Arcadia, they aren't taking anything away from you, just as when the day comes that you leave here, you won't leave anyone or anything behind."

_ But I will _ , Max thinks miserably.  _ I will.  _

"The future is not something to be scared of," Ms. Owens tells her firmly. "Fear, of anything at all, limits us more than anything else in the world."

Ms. Owens doesn't understand. Chloe  _ is _  Arcadia. She's the trees and the sweet wind and the sun glittering off the bay. She's the best songs on the Two Whales jukebox and she's the excited glee on Trevor's face when he perfects a new skate trick. She's the bench at the lighthouse and she's the moon's silky glow through Max's window and she is every single grain of sand on the beach. 

Max pictures herself at a college campus that is too clean and too vast, devoid of all of that, devoid of the hope that comes from spotting a warm-blue bird sail to the highest branch of a tree. What is she even thinking, entertaining the idea of Washington University? If she leaves, if she sets one foot over that town line after graduation, when everybody is gone, when Blackwell is empty for another humid summer - who the hell is going to be around to remember Chloe? Not her classmates, not Joyce and David, not Rachel. Max has to stay because without her, Chloe is going to be alone. 

"Max?" Ms. Owens is peering at her closely, her eyes soft with concern. 

A ruthless, rough voice in her head pipes up  _ you're abandoning her  _ and it rouses a new rush of tears to her eyes, ones that she can't hold back. They spill relentlessly down her hot cheeks and are sticky by the time they reach her chin. Ms. Owens passes her the tissues box and Max seizes a clump of them, dabbing them roughly against her sore eyes. Her breath shakes, rattles, burns. 

She's leaving Nathan. The voice rakes its nails down the inside walls of her skull and hisses  _you're abandoning him_ , and the tears keep falling. Nathan gets her, in a lot of ways like Chloe did. When she sits across from him at those visits, she lets her guard down. She doesn't have to worry about looking weak or feeling weak because it's okay, he makes it okay, he smooths out the wrinkles in her heart because he's been there, and he doesn't put up those walls with her. Every week, the darkness that consumed him is peeled away by proper medication and excellent treatment and a growing self-esteem that she sees in him every time he turns around. His personality is coming through, poking through the cracks in the black and emerging into the light. The personality he might have had if he had all of this help earlier. He's dry, he's sarcastic, but he's thoughtful. He listens intently and he never forgets anything she tells him. He remembers random tidbits she mentioned airily about her cousin and remembers inside-jokes they made when the silence had first been breached between them, all those months ago. 

He needs her. She thinks she needs him. She's leaving. 

She thinks about Chloe and what she might say about this new Nathan, about Max's inner wish to kiss him each time she sees him now or hears his voice. The thought of Chloe and Nathan on that same wavelength twists something greasy and upsetting in her gut. Her and Chloe, if things had been different, if Max hadn't let her die, if Chloe had been given the chance to be  _ happy _ —

Thoughts and worries and deep buried-down  _ no-too-painful-to-think-abouts  _ that Max pushed down, that she kept shut in the boxes under her desk and promised herself she'd only open when she was ready, ready to acknowledge an alternative route that might have been—

Max is getting to her feet before her brain even registers the action. Trying to form thoughts through the barrage of emotion assaulting her right now is like trying to swim through boiling soup. 

She's not ready. Ms. Owens is right. She's stagnant and stuck like a rock in a river when it comes to her mourning. It's hopeless. She's never going to stop feeling this way, she's never going to move on, and envies how Joyce and David have made the progress to. It's been months  of  nothing for Max. 

She can't leave Arcadia, she can't go to college. She's never going to be ready. 

And she can't find  _ herself _ , as Ms. Owens keeps telling her to, because whoever she used to be died in that bathroom with Chloe and whoever she is now is buried beneath hundreds of pounds of guilt, bad luck and anger. 

She throws open the door and hurries out, her arms wrapped around herself, not crying anymore but seeing through eyes still blurred and rimmed with red,

"Max!" Ms. Owens is out of her chair, calling after her, but Max knows she won't come looking for her. 

It's still classtime, so the hallway is barren and silent, her quick footsteps beating echoes against the ground. Her shoulder brushes the hard edges of the lockers, her eyes rooted to the floor. All she wants to do is get back to her dorm. In her dorm, she'll be safe; she'll be safe and alone and she doesn't have to think there. About anything, about anyone. 

She rubs the damp streaks left behind by her tears away, using both hands and her sleeves, sniffing hard. Her breath lodges itself in her throat, clumpy and thick. 

"Max!"

_ Crap.  _ Ms. Donnelly comes bounding out of her classroom, intercepting her path directly. There's no throng of students to hide behind, to weave through and claim she's too busy to stop. She's stuck. 

"Excuse me, Ms. Donnelly," she says distractedly, "but I have to—"

"Don't worry," Ms. Donnelly's hand goes lightly to her arm, pulling her suddenly into the classroom. "I won't keep you very long."

The door of the photography class shuts with a firm creak. Max stands there, fiddling with her sweatshirt. There must be no more classes in here for the day; the chairs are all turned upside-down on the tables, the equipment immaculately put away and locked in the cabinets. Ms. Donnelly's desk is swept clean, save for a single sheet of paper with some kind of logo at the top. 

Max gives her face a thorough second wipe, her face growing hot now, raising her head shyly as Ms. Donnelly strides over to her desk.

"Is something wrong?" Max asks quietly. "Is this about finals?"

Ms. Donnelly shakes her head dismissively, and Max realizes that she's grinning. Broadly. 

" _ Congratulations _ , Max!" she says brightly. 

"Congra--?"

"You won! You  _ won! _ " 

Max frowns.

"Won what?" 

Ms. Donnelly laughs. "Did you forget?" She grabs the letter, and holds it out. "This is so exciting!"

Max reaches out slowly and takes the letter, her brows knitted together. She scans the first few lines. 

She shakes her head, wordless.

"They absolutely loved your entry," Ms. Donnelly says. "You really captured the essence of what it means to inspire. To inspire both a feeling, and a unique outlook on the world. Your photo showed the selflessness and dedication of ordinary people and how their hard work can truly move us to want to do better."

"I... won?"

"We jet off to San Francisco at the beginning of August," Ms. Donnelly nods.

Max's heart is racing in her chest, pumping her full of adrenalin. 

"Shocked, huh?" Ms. Donnelly beams. "At least it's the good kind of surprise."

Max blinks owlishly. "I just... are they sure? I mean, my photo wasn't even that good, and I didn't take this competition seriously. I really didn't. Somebody who took it seriously should win."

"Max, stop."

"But—"

Ms. Donnelly's gaze softens. "I told you to never doubt your talent. It's the single worst thing you can do for your art." 

Max's hands are shaking a little, her face hot as she stares down in disbelief at the letter in her hands. "But I could have done better," she argues weakly. "When I took that photo, I'd kind of lost touch with photography. If I'd taken it seriously, if I'd given it a real shot..."

"You deserve this," Ms. Donnelly replies. "You really do." 

Max opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She thinks about her photo hanging in some fancy, sunlit exhibit and she bites her lip hard.

She's never leaving Arcadia. She can't leave. Who cares about some competition?

The silence folds over, becomes tense. Max flushes as she folds the letter up as if to seal the words away forever, and hands it back to her teacher.

"I'm sorry," she says.

Ms. Donnelly's smile fades. "Max?"

"I can't. I can't go," Max blurts. "You say that I deserve it, but... I don't. I really don't."

"Max?" Ms. Donnelly looks at her pleadingly. "What are you talking about? Your photography is wonderful. It's unique, and clearly, worthy of winning this competition!"

"I'm sorry," Max repeats quietly. "I just— I just can't."

She spins on her heel hotly, marching for the door with her hand already outstretched to grip the handle.

Ms. Donnelly mutters a confused, "Max?" from behind her, but Max doesn't stay to hear the rest. 

She pushes out into the now empty, silent hallway, walking on loose flyers that must have come  unhinged  from the noticeboards. Her eyes sting again, warm and insistent, and she doesn't stop walking until she's outside in the crisp afternoon, away from where Ms. Donnelly might follow her. But Max knows she won't. Class tomorrow will be painfully awkward, but Ms. Donnelly isn't the pushy type. She's not going to force her into going. Her eyes will sweep pitying across her face tomorrow and she'll call the gallery. She'll recommend they choose someone else. Victoria maybe, or Daniel, or Logan. Just someone else. Anyone else. 

  
  


That night, Max's chest feels kind of scrubbed-out. Hollow. She feels loose-limbed and strange after a shower and is surrounded in the safe comfort of her dorm, lying in her pajamas in her bed, something to distract her loaded on her laptop and a cold glass of water on her nightstand. 

She's thrown a coat over the boxes. 

She's only a few minutes into her movie when her phone buzzes, pinned beneath her hip. A text from Warren. 

 

_ Et in Arcadia ego = most basic translation I can find is "even in utopia, there is death" :/ Mean anything??? _

 

The second she reads the words, Max feels a wave of... cold. She doesn't know why, but she's creeped out. It seems like another confusing jigsaw piece, one with shaved edges, so that it doesn't fit anywhere no matter how hard she pushes. 

After a moment or two of staring hard at the opposite wall, thinking, Max texts back. 

 

_ So it means even in the most perfect society, there will still always be death and destruction?  Thx for the info Warren. Weird.  _

 

She considers going back to her movie, but those words have piqued a curiosity that pokes with a blunt finger at her temple.

She takes a long sip of water, grabbing her phone again. 

 

_ Warren, would you mind checking out something else for me? _

 

His reply is instant.  _ Happy to help! Is it more creepy shit? _

 

_ You bet _ , Max responds. She delves into her photo album, and finds the picture of the graffiti by Wells' office, the one that still prickles the hair on the back of her neck. She sends it to Warren, waiting with her phone on her stomach. Warren's response is just what she figured.

 

_ Now THAT'S creepy! A dwelling place? Ceremonies of my people?? Who the hell are "my people" ?? _

 

_ That's what I need you're help finding out,  _ Max responds. 

 

_ We're gonna need the lucky donuts for this one, Mad Max. _

  
  



	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Shows up after 40 years and hopes no one notices*
> 
> We're almost at the end of the road! But there is still LOTS more to come. This one is unbeta'd for the moment, but soon to change! Any mistakes are the result of me writing this in a furious tea and energy-drink fueled haze. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your kudos, comments, bookmarks and warm encouragements. I appreciate them and you all beyond WORDS. I hope you enjoy this one! 
> 
> Next chapter: the trial begins!

 

  
  
At the weekend, the suitcases left to gather dust since September are tugged out from beneath Max's bed, and laid wide-open on top of the rumpled covers. The cumbersome weight of her inevitable graduation hangs over her like a threatening, dangling anvil as she packs away books, CDs, the summer clothes she doesn't need in the current barrage of rain and wind. The walls are sad and starkly bare when she strips them of their posters, the shelves like empty caves when the stacks of books and folders are taken away. For now, she leaves the memorial wall. She's not ready to take those photos down. Not yet. 

The rest of the dorm inhabitants are doing the same, and Max works busily to the distant buzz of Dana's music from down the hall, as well as listening to the occasional thud of a packed box or Victoria dragging a growling vacuum across her carpet. Living on this floor had always been a odd but cosy comfort, and Max isn't sure how she'll adjust, returning to the silent box room in her parents apartment, and its claustrophobic isolation. 

When her phone breaks into a shrill song around lunchtime, Max is in the middle of digging through a box of cookies and, for the umpteenth time, trying to figure out what the hell to do about those boxes underneath her desk. She doesn't look at the screen before she puts it to her ear, and so it takes her a second to remember who the chatty, breezy voice on the other end belongs to. 

"Max, hey. Happy Saturday." Kristine sounds like she's in the middle of something, distracted in a buoyant way as a door thumps shut in the background. "Are you busy? Because I can call back."

"No, it's cool. What's up?" Max takes a seat gingerly on the end of her bed. 

Kristine hesitates, just barely, the cheer in her voice dwindling for only a second. "Oh, you know, a lot of things. Our house is crazy. Reporters practically camped out behind the gates. I can't  _believe_  the trial is next week."

"Me neither," Max tenses. "Have you been talking to Nathan?"

"Talk isn't how I'd describe it. I mean, like,  _I_  talk. He mostly just sits there, pouting." She sighs. "But I know he's scared. He's trying to act like he isn't, but he's a lot easier to read than he thinks." 

"It'll be fine," Max says, trying to sound certain. "We just have to support him." 

Kristine pauses. "Right. So, listen, I know it's like, the end of semester, you must be snowed under but... do you think you could come over?"

"Come over?"

"Yeah. Like, to the house."

Max stands up slowly, already reaching for her bag. "Uh sure, no problem."

"Great! Good." There is a noise in the background, something falling to the ground, Max thinks. "I wish I could pick you up, but--"

"No, don't worry about it," Max says. "I have a friend who has to be forced to take study breaks. He can give me a ride."

"Great. Could you be here in like... ten minutes or so? Like I said, today's crazy." 

Max's eyebrows furrow, but she keeps her voice indifferent. "...Yeah, sure."

"I'm sort of in a hurry," Kristine says cryptically. "But I guess I'll see you soon. The door is open, so just walk on up. I'm in my old room."

"Okay, will do."

"See you soon."

Max hangs up, features still confusedly creased. She sends Warren a text asking him to give her the ride, and although he instantly replies with a frenzied message about not being able to get to his door because of the menacing tower of textbooks that have him under house arrest, Max knows that he'll be there at his car in five minutes. 

He doesn't look as tired as he did when he drove Kate and her to Joyce's, but he doesn't exactly look any better, either. Max has made peace with the fact Warren apparently will have those purplish bags under his eyes for the rest of his life, so she's nicknamed them to make the whole thing less tragic and worrying - Sleepy and Sleepier. He's dressed in the same shirt he was wearing the last time she saw him, complete with the old ketchup stain across the collar, and he actually has bumps and sore-looking swells around the sides of his fingers from the ridiculous marathon of practice-paper writing he's been doing. 

Max stares at him worriedly from the passenger seat as his head occasionally lolls forward, his eyes blinking sluggishly through the rain-splattered windscreen. 

"Thanks for being my personal cab driver."

"S'fine." 

"How's the studying going?" 

"Fine."

"Did you hear anything about that internship?"

"No."

"Oh, well, you're definitely going to get it." 

"Yeah."

Max folds her arms. "I'm dying my hair pink, dropping out of Blackwell and moving to China to become an acrobat."

"Okay." 

" _Warren_."

He jumps so violently that Max immediately regrets messing with him. He jerks and the car swerves dangerously into the -- thankfully empty -- other lane. Warren swears, his eyes widening as if waking up from a dream. 

"What?" he pants. "What happened?"

"Are you even sleeping at night, zombie face?"

"Sorry," he relaxes, but not by much, "I think I'm just crashing. My diet these days consists primarily of energy drinks." 

"How are you still alive?"

"Because I am ninety-nine per cent energy drink."

Max reaches into her bag to grab her phone, and types out a new text message to Kristine. 

 

_can my friend grab a cup of coffee in your kitchen? Please. I think he might die on the way home_

 

_OMG! Of course!!_

 

"So," Warren says. He reaches out and flips on the radio, evidently hoping the jarring country-western music that erupts from it will keep him alert. "Why are you going to see Nathan's sister?" 

"I don't actually know, but she sounded a little funny on the phone." 

"It's gotta be the trial. Are you ready?"

"Ready?" Max shakes her head. "No. I'm terrified." 

"You know we're here for you," Warren says, trying to sound upbeat. "And when you think about it, all you have to do is tell the truth. That's gonna be easy, right?"

Max looks away from him, her fingers twisting weakly in her lap. "Yeah."

When the car chugs up to the ornate courtyard of the Prescott Estate, Max hears Warren's sharp inhale. If he was distracted before, he's definitely awake now. He leans forward, chest touching the steering wheel as he peers with saucer-sized eyes up at the house. Even beneath a thunderous sky, even coated in dripping rain, it still looks regal. Powerful and statuesque. 

"Holy shit," Warren breathes, "is my car even allowed to be in this driveway? Because suddenly I feel like Scarlett Prescott's going to call the cops on me, for putting my dirty wheels on her property."

"She's not here. Neither is Mr. Prescott." Max says quickly, with audible relief. The only vehicles she can spot are Kristine's shiny SUV and a pristine white van belonging to a hired maid service. 

Something about the house is different, though, and it takes Max a few moments to work out what it is. She realizes that it's the windows. Nearly all of the curtains are drawn heavily, like shields and barriers. It must be because of the news crews, but none seem to be loitering around at the moment. Max feels another hot wash of relief -- she doesn't think she could handle being plastered across the front page of every local newspaper, before she even has a chance to tell Joyce about all of this. 

"Come on," she says to Warren, reaching to open the door.

He stares at her. "What?"

"You're coming in."

"No way! That place looks like every villain's lair I've ever seen on Scooby Doo."

"Relax. Kristine says you can get some coffee, which you  _need._  And Nathan's parents aren't here, so you can just head into the kitchen and make it yourself while I go talk to her."

Warren's face is a mixture of concern and awe as he clambers out of the car and follows her, crunching across the damp gravel to the front door. He looks as out of place as she does, and it's oddly comforting to know Max isn't the only one constantly jarred by the grandeur of this lifestyle. A rolled-up newspaper, slick with rain, has been left on the immaculate welcome mat that doesn't appear welcoming at all, and Max steps carefully over it on her way to the door handle, not missing the fact the front page is about the upcoming court trial.  _Biggest Trial In Arcadia Bay History_ , she reads. Max swallows.

The door is open, as Kristine had said, and their footsteps echo noticeably on the smooth marble. Max, suddenly paranoid about leaving footprints or a mess, tries to make her gait as light as possible. Warren brushes past her, hand twisting absently in the ratty hem of his shirt as he stares up at the glossy paintings, the bare walls, Dean's memorial - the candle by his picture burning bright. 

"This is next level," Warren mumbles. 

He shuffles after her into the kitchen, with its glimmering chrome and complicated appliances. The cleaners must have just been through here, as there is a potent stench of bleach in the air, stinging Max's nose. She leads Warren over to the coffee machine and the two of them stare at it for a second. 

"What is that," Warren says blankly. 

"It makes coffee," Max says, biting her lip. "...Somehow."

Warren's hand hovers uncertainly over the mess of buttons and knobs. "I'm supposed how to figure out how this thing works? I've done chemistry experiments less intimidating than this."

"You're smart, aren't you?" Max, suddenly paranoid that a Prescott who isn't Kristine or Harry could march through the door, glances back at the kitchen door and begins to move towards it. "I'm going to go find Kristine. Don't... set fire to anything. Yourself included."

"No promises."

Walking through the Prescott house alone kind of feels like wandering through a maze in the dark. Max is certain that, any second, a pair of cold hands will grasp her pincer-like at the shoulders and the consequences will be anything but good. The house is freezing, her own breath fogging in front of her lips, and she moves with caution up the staircase, gripping the rail tightly. Suddenly all she can think about is Warren's Scooby Doo comment and that the steps beneath her will abruptly transform into a slippery ramp she tumbles down, hurtling through some horrifying trap door. Sean Prescott seems the type to have an underground pool of snapping crocodiles. 

Jesus. She really is sleep-deprived. 

When she reaches the top of the stairs, a rustling noise from one of the doors on her left catches her attention. The other doors are closed shut, Nathan and Dean's rooms included, and as much as her curiousity begs her to creep in for another sweep, her legs carry her in the other direction instead. The door she reaches is cracked ajar, and through the gap, Max can see a frilly bed and a wall full of posters and maps. 

"Max? Is that you?" Kristine's voice calls from inside. She sounds busy with something. 

"Yeah," Max nudges her way in, smiling politely. "Wow, cool room."

If Max had to design a room for Kristine, it probably would end up looking like this. Enough pink and purple to be warm but not tacky, and cluttered sky-high with old magazines, travel guides and empty health snack wrappers. The closet is walk-in and impossibly crammed, sleeves and the ends of jeans straining against the fissure in the middle of the door in an attempt to escape. There are huge maps on the walls - including one of the States and the other of the world, each one circled furiously and scrawled across with excited Sharpie. Photographs are stuck crookedly above a sleek vanity dresser piled with make-up, and Max can't help but notice that none of them are of Kristine. They are all pictures of landscapes, gorgeous places, everything from jagged cliffs to breathtaking fields of flowers. But there's never any people. 

Music is playing out loud from Kristine's phone, something lilting and upbeat that matches the room. As nice as the bedroom is, Max feels suddenly... trapped. The windows, the en-suite. It feels like a hotel room - something that doesn't belong to you, that you don't belong in, something frilly and temporary and completely fake.

"Hey," Kristine gives her a lipsticky smile. She's dressed in the kind of fashionable white jeans that Victoria would probably sell her soul for, and despite the rain, a pair of sunglasses sit atop her blonde head.

She's holding an armful of clothes, and standing by her bed over an enormous suitcase. It's unzipped and open, already well-packed. 

Max stares at the suitcase for a beat, as her stomach tightens involuntarily. She thinks she knows why Kristine called. 

"Shitty day outside, huh?" Kristine hums. She dumps the outfits she's holding into the suitcase, not bothering to fold anything, and begins zipping around the room like someone's lit a fire under her. She grabs toiletries, random pictures off the wall, stuff that doesn't look important at all but somehow must be. "How are you? Thanks for coming. I know you gotta be - well, all over the place."

"I'm fine," Max murmurs, her eyes still fixed on the suitcase. 

Kristine pauses, a strange forced smile twisting her lips as she gestures at the suitcase. She must realise she can't distract Max anymore. "So, yeah. This is... happening. I'm a little stressed, you know? God, there's  _so_  much to do. I think I actually need another case, maybe another carry-on. I'm a little ashamed at how one person accumulates all of this crap."

Max blinks at her. "You're leaving?" 

Kristine nods. "I've... decided to go back to Brazil. Better weather there." She chuckles, but the joke falls flat. Max doesn't smile or tear her eyes away from the offending case, and this makes Kristine shift uncomfortably on her feet. Max would almost feel bad for her, if she could make out anything other than her own swelling confusion. 

"But the trial," Max retorts. "It's next week." 

"I know that." She rolls her shoulders and points at something behind Max's head. "Hand me that bag, would you?"

Max turns to spot an expensive-looking handbag, bigger and roomier than it looks from the outside. She tosses it weakly at Kristine, who catches it with ease and sets about filling it with more stuff. The silence beats. 

"What's the rule about liquids?" Kristine asks breezily, moving towards the bathroom. "I always forget."

Max shakes her head hard. "Kristine. What's going on? The trial -- You can't be--"

"Can you not look at me like that? All kicked puppy-ish?"

"We need you here.  _Nathan_  needs you here."

Kristine fumbles, only briefly, with the blue dress she's packing away. Her smile is false. "You know, usually I just leave. Just pack my stuff and go, but... I wanted to say goodbye to you in person. You deserve it, after everything you've done to help my brother." She nods at Max, her smile solidifying. "He really cares about you, you know." 

"Why are you leaving?" 

Kristine shrugs. "I have to."

" _No_ , you don't. Why are you doing this?" 

"Because I can't stay in this town a second longer," Kristine says, her voice uneven. "You don't get it, Max. I never _wanted_  to be a Prescott. Stay?" She snorts. "It's not that easy. It's never been easy to just... to just  _be_  in this house. You can't be anything other than what they force you. I am not about that. I have to go." She dumps another bag on the bed. 

"You said on the phone that Nathan is scared," Max answers, stepping nearer. "And, he might not say it, but he needs you."

"Carmin is going to fix everything, like always," Kristine says, turning her back. "I mean, it's a sure thing, right? Nathan's going to be fine. And - and maybe I'll come visit. But I just need to get out of here and clear my head."

"You can clear your head without going to another country!"

Kristine just shakes her head. 

Max feels a sudden urge to snap the suitcase shut and hurl it out the window. "If you do this," she says, "you're letting him down." 

Kristine smiles without any meaning. "I'm used to it. So is he." 

"But it doesn't have to be like that," Max says fiercely, aware her voice is rising. "If you want to stop him from being mad at you,  _stay_. Show him that you aren't going to run away again. Please."

"There's too much history," Kristine says flatly. "Staying in this hellhole won't change a thing."

"But you've never tried!" 

Kristine turns and looks at her. Her cheeks are red, her smile still as fake as the artificial flowers on her nightstand. "I appreciate what you're trying to do, Max. But my mind's made up. I've always made my own decisions."

"And look where it got you," Max shoots back bitterly. "This is  _selfish_ , Kristine."

Kristine barely looks affected. Max knows that she's heard this all before. Had this conversation one too many times, and now she's impervious to it. She's probably had this conversation with Nathan, maybe even in this same room. Max imagines the walls quaking beneath his anger, his betrayal. Her scowl digs itself deeper onto her face. 

"I'm crashing at a hotel tonight," Kristine says softly, "and my flight leaves first thing tomorrow morning. I don't really have a lot of time, and I need to pack, so..."

"Please don't do this. If you leave, Nathan might never talk to you again."

Kristine leans over to her nightstand and opens the bottom drawer. Max doesn't see what she pulls out until she's turning around and pressing it, cold and bulky, into Max's palms. 

"Here," Kristine says kindly. "Hold onto this for me, will you? After I go, my parents are likely to gut this room and I... I didn't want them to throw that out."

Max glances down at the camera. "You're not into photography."

"It's Nathan's, one of his first cameras. Maybe someday, you can give it back to him."

Kristine swallows. The music isn't as clear as before, a buzz beneath the tense silence. 

"Take care of him, would you?" Kristine adds. "On the topic of things he won't say, he likes you a lot, Max. He needs  _you_. Be there for him." She glances back at the suitcase. "No one else ever is." 

"Aren't you going to go see him?" 

"No. It's easier this way." 

"But--"

Kristine glances at the illuminated screen of her phone, showing the time. "Mother will be home soon, and I'd kinda like to get out of here before that."

Max moves slowly back to the door, holding the old, worn camera awkwardly beneath her arm. She hesitates, wanting to say something more powerful than  _don't do this_ or _stay,_ something that will actually swell Kristine's heart and convince her to tear up her plane ticket. But nothing comes out. The words are never there, when Max needs them. 

"See you around, Max," Kristine says, and the fact that she won't is left unsaid. 

Warren, noticeably more perked up, doesn't ask her about the conversation on the ride home and Max is grateful. He taps his fingers to the song on the radio and seems to be enjoying the quiet, for once. It's getting dark, the slate gray sky rumbling with the promise of another downpour throughout the night, and Max pulls her legs underneath her chin to feel warmer. 

She can feel her phone in her back pocket. She wants to call him. 

"Do you mind if I call the hospital?"

Warren blinks with surprise and something else, something undecipherable, but he nods and turns down the volume a bit. "Go ahead."

Nathan answers on the fourth ring. He sounds tired and quiet, and Max feels an irrepressible urge to wrap her arms around him. 

"Hey, it's me," she says. 

"Max." The relief there, the poorly masked joy, warms something to a glow in her chest. "I wasn't sure if it was you. You never call this early."

"I know, sorry--"

"Hey, I'm  _not_  complaining." 

She smiles softly. "I called because... I was just at your house, and--"

"My house?"

"Yeah. Kristine invited me over."

"Shit. What did she do? Piss you off?" Nathan makes an impatient sound. "She talks before she thinks."

"No, nothing like that." The upholstery is frayed at the edge of the seat. Max scratches at it with her nail, hesitating. "She's leaving." 

"Leaving?"

"She's going back to Brazil. She was packing up her stuff when I got there. Her flight's tomorrow. She's actually  _leaving_."

Silence. But not the upset or tense one Max anticipated. 

Instead, Nathan sounds confusingly calm. 

"...And?"

She frowns. "What do you mean ' _and_ '? She's totally bailing on you."

"...And you're surprised?"

"You're not?"

"Fuck no. You  _have_  met my sister?" His voice contains no trace of sadness or even anger. There is sarcasm, but it's not masking anything for once. "I told you. Skipping out is what she does. If there was a job around it, she'd be the fuckin' CEO." 

"I'm so sorry. It's not fair."

"Nah, I'm sure she  _really_  thought about it for a good five minutes before she packed her bags. Maybe ten." 

"Are you mad?"

Warren shoots her a nervous glance. 

"No," Nathan sighs. "I'm fucking tired."

"The trial, it's..."

"I know."

"It's going to be messy."

"I know."

"You're going to be--"

"Fine," Nathan finishes for her, softly. "With you there."

Max must pause for a long time, because she feels Warren look at her. She pulls at the threaded hem of the seat and thinks about Nathan standing rumpled-haired in the hospital hallway, sharp and defined among the saturated white hallway. 

"Carmin's coming this weekend," Nathan tells her, "she's gonna be lecturing me and shoving everything down my throat. Man, I can't believe this is happening."

"Does your father suspect anything?"

"No. If he trusts anyone in this shithole, it's Carmin." A weighted pause passes. "I keep trying to picture him on the witness stand. If he's going to break. I've... never seen him be anything but what he is."

"Everyone has weak spots," Max says, "we just have to hope Carmin knows how to find his."

Blackwell is coming into rain-splotched view, the edges blurred and soft. Max feels sleepy, and for some reason, lonely. She wonders if Nathan stares out the window like she does, on evenings like this. If he can see the lighthouse. 

"I'll see you on Wednesday," Max says. 

"Our last one."

"What?"

"It's our last Wednesday," Nathan's voice is strange. "The last visit. Fuck knows where I'll be after the trial."

Max feels a sharp pang in her heart. The sensation gets bigger and demands to be noticed, a ball in her throat. 

Nathan chuckles gruffly. "How about this," he says, "wherever I end up, I'll send you a postcard."

Max smiles sadly. "The last one. I guess... we better make it count."

She feels his smile in the distance between them. It comes through the phone, pressing warm against her cheek. 

"Yeah, I guess we should. I'll see you Wednesday, Max Caulfield." 

When she hangs up, Warren's car is crawling to a stop in a parking space, groaning a reminder of its worsening life expectancy. It survived its bare-knuckled encounter with a deer, but seems to be begging to be put out of its misery. The deflated expression on Warren's face as he pats the dash is almost comical. 

But when he glances over at her, the deflation remains, a different sort of deflation entirely. One that tries to hide before it's noticed. 

"So," he says, his lips twitching into a smile that doesn't quite make it. "You and Nathan, huh?"

"What?"

"When you were on the phone, your face was all..." Warren gestures airily. 

"All...?"

"All... _all_." He scrubs a hand through his hair. "So what's the deal?"

Max glances down at her silent phone, as if Nathan is listening to their conversation through it. "It's a little complicated," she admits.

"No shit." He stares at the red-brick wall ahead of them. "The Nathan in the other timeline, were you and him...?"

"No."

"What happened to him? You didn't really tell me."

Max's brain brings up the rush of too-bright memories and a dull ache pounds against her temples because of it. But there is Nathan, the old Nathan, tucked in the darkest parts of her memory and reminding her what this is all for. His cold eyes and his bloodied, bitten fingernails, wearing anger as armor. Not knowing what's real and what isn't, overwhelmed and crippled by his own mind as he pinches himself desperately to remind himself that he's still here. Somehow. Suffering, furious. A hurricane of misery and pain and helplessness roaring out to sea, unable to be stopped or halted or healed.

She thinks, if that Nathan met this Nathan, he wouldn't believe he really existed. He wouldn't believe there was actually somebody there, buried underneath all of that nothing, just waiting to be dug back out and be filled with breath again. If old Nathan met new Nathan, she doesn't think he'd even comprehend it. 

"It was like he was... _drowning,_ " Max mumbles. "I don't ever want to see him like that again. It was awful."

"Well, you won't. Sounds to me like you saved him." 

Her shoulders sink. "I can't save anyone. And when it comes to Nathan, I feel so... powerless." 

"Why?"

"Because what if all of this isn't enough? What if Carmin messes up, or we're not able to put Sean behind bars, or -- or --"

"Hey," Warren's dry fingers find hers. "Didn't I tell you that the universe owes you some favors? Everything is going to be fine. It has to be. You got some mad cosmic back-up on your side, Max. I can tell."

She huffs a laugh. "Really." 

"Really. Somebody's definitely watching over you."

They walk back to the dormitories together, Warren looking a lot fresher than when he'd left.

Max passes by the rows of shrubbery. The freaky graffiti is gone. Scrubbed away, the words lost forever. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

There is a tight, bound-up tension in the dense air of Silva & Christopher, and not just because it's Sunday and the building is practically dead. It's because of the trial, Max knows. The atmosphere feels tight and braced, like the single second of suspense before a brutal car crash. 

Carmin isn't in one of her usual spotless pantsuits, but instead in an actual pair of  _jeans_  and a button-up blouse. It's like seeing the scary teacher in public. She's writing something when Max enters, and she doesn't look up immediately, strands of dark hair falling across her tired-looking eyes. It's only noon, but the lawyer looks as though she's been there a while. Takeout coffee cups and deli-made salad litter her cluttered desk and the way she is stooped over hints at a sleepless night. Seems like a common occurrence for people lately.

 Max clears her throat, loud enough that it blocks out the rain drumming against the fancy windows, and finally Carmin glances up. 

"Max." She raises both eyebrows, her pen stalling on the page. "What are you doing here?"

"Sorry, I probably should have called." She crosses the room and sits, dumping her bag beside her. 

"No, it's alright, I should have expected you. It's nearly trial day." 

"How are you? Do you think you have enough evidence?"

"Well, I've gone to trial with less before. I've  _won_  other cases with less. But..."

"This isn't just any other case," Max finishes. 

"Right. This is a Prescott case, and I need to be on my goddamn toes." She points her pen in Max's direction. "As much as you try to stop it from happening, there is still an element of bias with the jury, maybe even with the judge. It's not going to be easy to make them sympathetic to Nathan."

"You can do it," Max says. "It won't be easy, but you can do it."

"I'm planning on turning the tables of this whole thing once Sean is on the stand. Until then, you'll have to be as neutral in your witness statement as you possibly can, without making anyone suspicious." 

Max makes a face. "That doesn't sound easy."

"It isn't. And when it comes time for me to cross-examine, I apologize in advance. I'm going to have to grill you pretty hard."

"How... hard exactly?" Max asks anxiously. 

Carmin's answering stare is firm. "Just try not to slip up." She tilts her head. "You're obviously not here for a chat, and you look like you have something to say." 

Max nods. "I do."

"Come on, then. Out with it." 

Max straightens in her seat, pulling in a slow breath. "It's about Nathan. I did what you asked."

Carmin raises an eyebrow. 

"Rachel Amber," Max reminds her. "I got Nathan to tell me what really happened to her."

Carmin pauses thoughtfully. Her hard eyes never leave Max's face as she sits back slowly, setting down her pen. "Did you. Well, congratulations are in order. He must trust you." 

"I promised him that you would help."

"You shouldn't have," Carmin says coolly. "As much as I hate to admit it, at the end of the day, I'm human. I'm doing what I can for Nathan, but promising him anything is a step over the line." She doesn't look terribly surprised when she asks, "So, I'm guessing the truth is what I suspected."

Max looks away.

"What happened to Rachel, Max?"

She opens her mouth helplessly. The rain hammers the glass, relentless. 

"It was an accident," Max says quietly. 

Carmin pushes out a long, drawn-out sigh. "Shit."

"I think he must have blacked out or something."

"Blacked out?" Carmin's forehead wrinkles. 

"He wanted to impress Mr. Jefferson, and he asked Rachel to meet him in the junkyard. They were drinking, and--" Max stops. With every word that leaves her mouth, the line between Carmin's eyes is deepening, her mouth curving into more of a frown. Max blinks. "What's up?"

"The junkyard? Nathan and Rachel were in the junkyard?"

"Yes. He just wanted to take her picture like Jefferson wanted to. But then, Nathan woke up in the Dark Room, and Rachel was -- Rachel was--"

Carmin jerks into action. Her hand fumbles to yank open one of her desk drawers, something hurried about her movements. Max frowns again, but she keeps talking, as if the words are driving the lawyer forward. 

"Jefferson was there, and he told Nathan he used too much ketamine. That's all he remembers."

Carmin pulls out a manila folder, slimmer than the others, and drops it on the desk with a thud. 

Max blinks at it confusedly, a peculiar bloom of worry opening between her ribs. 

"What's that?" Max hears herself wonder.

Carmin stands up, looming over the folder. "Something that didn't make any sense until now."

She flips open the folder. It's full of random documents, and one single photograph. 

"The junkyard," Carmin says affectingly. "Nathan and Rachel in the junkyard."

Max stares at the photo in disbelief. 

"I've seen this before." Her hands are shaking. She doesn't become aware of it until her fingers are reaching for the photo and they tremble against the edges. "This was in the Dark Room." 

"I know," Carmin returns. "It's been a piece of evidence that I had no idea what to do with. Until just now." 

In the photo, Rachel lies with her limbs at bent, limp angles, her hair wild around her face and strewn with twigs and leaves from the detritus on the junkyard ground. Nathan lies right behind her, eyes heavy-lidded and unaware. 

Max feels a blow to her stomach. Heat prickles beneath her skin and she thinks she might be sick. 

"Nathan said he remembers Mark Jefferson waking him up in the Dark Room?"

Speechless, Max nods. 

"The photos of Rachel that Jefferson took," Carmin says, "I practically memorized them. These shorts, this t-shirt," she points at the picture on the desk, "it was the same day as this." 

"J-Jefferson--"

"Does Kate Marsh remember being drugged?"

Max shakes her head, her throat constricted by her own shallow breath. 

"Damn it, Nathan." Carmin grabs the mug of half-full coffee by her hand and takes a long sip. "Does he remember physically drugging Rachel?"

"No," Max breathes. 

"Jefferson." Carmin's mug is slammed heavily onto her desk. 

Max keeps her eyes on the photo. "Does this mean... Nathan didn't actually--"

"I'm not saying it means anything," Carmin interrupts. "Nothing concrete, anyway. But it is... eye-opening. I need to figure out what to do with this."

"Not concrete?" Max is baffled. "Just look at Nathan, he's obviously drugged! That's why he doesn't remember hurting Rachel. Because he  _didn't._  Jefferson drugged both of them, he took that photo. Jefferson--"

"Max," Carmin says steadily, "I know what you want to believe, but try not to jump to any conclusions here. The jury can find more holes in Nathan's story then can be smoothed over with one picture."

"But--"

"Still, Nathan should know." Carmin rubs at her forehead. "Are you seeing him next week?" 

"Wednesday. It's our last Wednesday." 

"I'll let you tell him then. Might be easier, to hear it from you."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Max spends the bus ride to St. Dymphna's white-knuckled, clutching the seat beneath her tightly as agitated thunder roars its presence in the tumultuous gray sky. The sound of the wipers squeaking through the heavy sheets of rain is her only soundtrack. She's left her ear buds out today, her mind too full of thoughts. There is no room for music. She's been counting down the hours all day to this: the last visit, the last Wednesday. The air of finality about it all buzzes in her heart. 

Thirty Wednesdays. She had caught herself counting when she should have been listening in Ms. Grant's class. Thirty takeaway orders at the Two Whales, thirty bus rides, thirty four o'clocks, thirty sign-ins at the desk. One thousand, eight-hundred hours. A dozen hugs. One kiss. 

The bus driver nods as he always does when she splashes down the steps, holding her messenger bag aloft over her head one-handed, using her other to tuck the still-warm cup of coffee beneath her armpit. The cold air snaps at her heels as she races up the sloping driveway, ducking her head at the next roll of thunder. It's so dark for this time of year, many of the windows of the hospital illuminated by light. By the time she reaches the ward, she is fully aware she resembles a drowned rat, but she knows he won't care. She's seen him look worse, and there is a peculiar comfort in that. 

Her arrival on the ward is announced by the wet slap of her shoes on the linoleum, but she's glad to see that she isn't the only one swept up in the downpour. The other visitors are freezing-looking and damp, huddled by the radiators and dripping puddles that the orderlies are impatiently trying to clean up. 

Her chest blooms with fond affection at the sight of Nell, as ever installed behind the desk and writing up reports. She glances up and smiles when she spots Max coming. 

"Beautiful day, huh?" she says, reaching for the box of visitor's passes and bracelets. " _Really_  glad I got out of bed today."

Max places the coffee in front of her with a broad smile. "Maybe this will cheer you up." 

Nell's eyes widen. "Is that coffee? You brought me coffee?"

"If you don't want it, I guess I could drink it--"

Nell's hand shoots out so fast that she nearly knocks the drink off the desk. "Max Caulfield, you are a star. A gold one. A big, gold star." She peels the top off and inhales, almost reverently. "Jesus, and it's not even decaf.  _Thank you_."

Max pins the pass to her sweatshirt, smiling. "It's the last Wednesday. I figured it was better late than never to pay you back for being so awesome this year."

Nell answers by blinking in disbelief. "It's the last Wednesday? Are you serious? God, I feel old." She peers at Max warmly over the brim of her next sip. "I guess you're heading off to college soon."

Max can't help her grimace, and Nell laughs. 

"I know that face," she says. "Believe it or not, I wasn't always the pioneer of psychiatric care you see standing before you. I didn't know what the hell I wanted to do. Who the hell does, at eighteen?"

"I'm just freaked out that I'll pick something and be too afraid of failing to even try," Max says despondently. 

"Max, I went to two different community colleges and dropped out of both, and then I worked half a dozen jobs just trying to get by. And then, I just sort of fell into nursing. If that happens to you, you gotta know that you're going to land on your feet eventually." She pats her lightly on the arm. "Do what you love and there's no way in hell you can fail. I'd rather be poor and fulfilled than rich and miserable. Take the Prescotts as Exhibit goddamn A."

Max smirks. "You're fulfilled by nursing? Every time I see you, you look like you're counting down the hours to go home."

"Of course I am. But do you know what?" Nell winks. "When I'm home, I'm counting down the hours to drag my ass back in here, too."

Max knows she should tell her about the photo contest. It's only fair. After all, it was Nell's image that made her win. Max props her elbow up on the desk, sighing until Nell glances over at her with a raised eyebrow. 

"There was a photo competition at Blackwell," she begins, "and the theme was 'Inspire'."

"Gotta love art school."

"I took a photo of you."

"Of  _me?_ "

Max flushes. "Don't look at me like that! It wasn't while you were sleeping or anything--"

"Uh, I didn't think it was."

"Oh."

"...Until you said that."

Max laughs. "Chill. You were working at this desk, and I just thought it was a sweet photo op. Sorry if it was creepy."

"It's definitely not creepy," Nell says, suddenly excited. "Geez, Max, I'm flattered! What exactly about me inspires you? My crappy posture, my rat's nest hair, my ability to consume copious amounts of caffeine and still stand up--?"

"Actually, it's your dedication." Max smiles at the roll of Nell's eyes. "Seriously. You're amazing." She bites her lip. "Amazing enough that... well, the contest judges agreed. I sort of won."

Nell stops. "You sort of won?"

"Uh, I did win."

"Max!" Nell actually puts down her coffee, her grin beaming. "That's huge! Holy hell! Congratulations." She glances down at one of the desk drawers. "Literally all I can offer you are gummy worms. I use 'em to bribe Chuckles into contributing to community group."

"Please, keep your gummy worms. I said no."

"What?"

"The winner gets a trip to San Francisco and their photo is placed in an art gallery there. But I didn't -- I  _couldn't_  take it. I--"

"I'm sorry?" Nell interrupts brusquely, "You said no?"

Max colors again, a shade deeper. "It's hard to explain."

"No, back up here. Seriously, rewind!" Nell looks scandalized. "My face is going to be hung in an actual, bona-fide art gallery for a bunch of schmoozers to gawk at, and you said no? Max? I'm a little offended."

Max's lips are twitching into a smile before she can stop them. 

 "Caulfield, I am way too selfish and too shallow to let you say no to this." Nell's hands press into her hips. "You're going to go back to Blackwell and  _demand_  that my face be hung up in that gallery for everyone to see. Then you're going to park your ass in said gallery, underneath my picture, and tell everybody who even breathes in your direction my name and how awesome I truly am."

"Nell--"

"No excuses." Nell brushes her hair out of her gleaming eyes impatiently, fixing her gaze determinedly on Max. "Did you not just hear my speech about doing what you love? Following your damn dreams? Because that shit came right from my coffee-addled heart. Max, you  _can't_  say no!" 

Max is trying her best to look unaffected, but it's not working. Her smile is broadening and she's shaking her head at the same time. "I think I regret telling you."

"Um, you should. I will call your photography teacher myself and say that if you do not accept this amazing opportunity, I'm suggesting that you need to be brought here, because you are obviously in need of a serious mental evaluation--"

"Okay, okay," Max laughs. "You made your point."

Nell settles down, folding her arms on the desk. "Good. I hope to get an invitation to this gallery with my face in it." She glances up at the clock. "Anyway, it's your last Wednesday and you're standing around here talking to me."

"Nathan!" Max turns around, and immediately frowns. He isn't here yet. "Where--?"

But Nell looks unconcerned. She waves her hand airily and steps out from behind the desk, grabbing an armful of paperwork. "He's in his room. I didn't expect him to come out, actually."

"Is he okay?"

"Just a little quiet. Has that resting face of hating everything and everyone. It's this trial. I can't wait until it's freakin'  _over._ " She nudges Max as she brushes by her. "Come on. Looks like I'll be third wheeling today."

Max's face heats. "You won't be--"

But Nell shoots her a  _look_ , and Max knows there is definitely no argument to be made here. She smiles, and follows Nell down the significantly quieter hallway. There is a small queue of patients by the phone, and they glance at her disinterestedly. 

Nell steps ahead of her, cradling her coffee like it's liquid gold, and knocks loudly on Nathan's door. 

"Chuckles. You better be decent." 

There is no answer from within, but neither of them seem to have expected one. Nell nudges the door open with the toe of her shoe and Max follows. Nell immediately sinks into the chair by the door, slapping her paperwork down and yawning. She fishes out her iPod from her pocket, tilting her head to slip each earbud in. Max can hear some gnarly rock music pulsing from them -- Nell is a thrasher. Unsurprising. Someone who drinks that much coffee just can't spend their time listening to smooth jazz. 

Nathan stands in hospital pants and his red jacket, facing away from her and staring out the window at the pouring rain. It's too dark to even see his reflection. 

"Hey," Max greets warmly, already stooping down to grab the turkey sandwiches from her messenger bag. "Happy Last Wednesday." 

He doesn't turn around. The rain is hurling itself at the window like it's trying to get in from the cold. After a weird beat in which Nathan says absolutely nothing, Max stands slowly, a frown slowly inking its way across her features. 

"Nathan?" 

He turns around, simultaneously in slow-motion and all too fast. His fists are clenched, the hard lines of his shoulders are impossibly rigid. 

He looks like a wreck. His usually lively eyes are clouded. Fogged over and glazed with an eerie disconnection. He holds his mouth and jaw held so tightly that, if he were to part his lips, it looks like it would rip the skin and hurt.

In that small pocket of time, everything that Max had to say dissolves. The playful conversations she predicted, or hoped for. The arms raised to envelop him in a hug lower slowly. Something is wrong. She knows before he even opens his mouth. 

When he does, the words tumble roughly to the floor and drag themselves over to her. 

"You were in the bathroom."

It's not a question. That must is obvious.

Max's heart plummets, then, scampers up her throat. 

_He knows he knows he knows._

_How?_

Her voice cracks. "I... what?"

His shoulders lift a fraction. He is staring hard at the floor, eyebrows scrunched. "You were in the bathroom. Chloe Price was your best friend."

Back when she was just a kid, when she and Chloe had spilled the wine on Joyce's carpet, she remembers that she had been so terrified of getting in trouble, of upsetting Joyce and having her rest disappointed eyes on her, that she had clambered onto the couch, hugged her limbs around her knotted-up chest, and genuinely wondered if she could shrink herself. Because if she made herself small enough, then Joyce wouldn't be able to yell at her. She wouldn't have to go through the hot rush of guilt.

Suddenly, that moment is all Max can think about. Nathan's expression shreds at her insides, the same way that seeing the wine slosh over the sides of their hastily-filled glasses as they tumbled to the carpet had clammed her up with a horrified anxiety. Max lifts her arms, and hugs them tightly around herself, dissolving beneath the weight of Nathan's stare. She wants to be small. She wants to be invisible.

She wants the ground to swallow her whole. 

She glances desperately back at Nell, but the nurse is oblivious, tapping her pen in time with the beat of the song. 

"You were in the bathroom," Nathan repeats softly. The words sting like a fresh bruise.

And it's funny. It's utterly sad. All of this time, Max has been dying to say it, to admit the truth and let it waft over her shoulders in a tremendous wash of relief. But now, when she needs to say it, when she has no choice -- the words are all dried up. Her brain is a parched desert with no oasis. 

Max takes a step forward, her messenger bag forgotten behind her. "Nathan--"

"Don't," Nathan interrupts. "I don't want to hear any bullshit. I don't want you to lie." He shakes his head. "You've done that enough already, right?"

Max fishes desperately for her voice. The silence is crippling. 

Eventually, she gets out a weak, "Who - Who told you?"

"Not you. Isn't that what matters? It wasn't you." 

"Nathan, please--"

She expected him to be furious. Livid. She expected his voice to be louder or crueller, or that it would grate around words that he spits carelessly to the floor. But she couldn't have predicted this. Instead of anger, Nathan is... _empty_. The dullness of his voice, the blankness of his face, it all petrifies and deflates her more furiously than if he yelled the walls down. She didn't think she would ever be on the receiving end of a look like that, from  _anyone_. It's a immense look of disappointment, of confused hurt, and it claws wild against the walls of her chest. 

The closeness between them feels suddenly far away, bolted shut and out of reach. He doesn't want to let her get at it, or try and bring it back. Now he looks at her like she is a stranger just walking through his door for the first time. He regards her as though she is someone not worth acknowledging. He's done with her. He barely looks at her. 

"So what was this?" Nathan asks disinterestedly. "Huh? Fucking community service?"

" _No!_  Nathan, of course not--"

"Nah, it couldn't have been, right? Because I've been thinking, and, now it all makes sense. You weren't just coming here for yourself. It was for them. It was always for them."

"Them?" Max shakes her head. "Them who?"

" _Them_. Joyce Price and that creep Madsen." Nathan nods, like he's accepting the truth of it. "You're here because of them. Since the start. They wanted you to -- what? Spy on me? Tell them that the scumbag who shot their daughter is rotting away in this place, right?"

"That's not true--"

Nathan turns his head, like looking at her is a waste of time.

"Same old fucking story, right?" he asks the air, his tone quiet. "Just another person who only acts like they give a shit. You never cared about me. You must've been laughing your ass off, huh? Making me think that I -- that  _we_  were --"

"Nathan,  _please_. You have to let me explain!" The searing, too-bright lights are dancing, blurry and wet.  Her eyes prick with rippling tears. 

An invisible metal wall has crashed down between them. Max is aware of some new immeasurable distance that she only ever felt during those first few visits, when Nathan had refused to open up for her, regarded her with skittishness. She takes a step forward, reaches out to brush her hand across his sagging shoulders, but it feels pointless. He may as well be in another continent, that's how far away he feels. Her hand flops miserably to her side. 

"It's fine, Max. Really." He sits down by the window, fingers drumming on the wood. "I'm used to it."

"I want to help you! _That's_  why I'm here." 

He stares flatly at the wall, to where he's pinned the pictures she took for him. He winces. 

"You were real convincing." His lips twist into a sad smile. "I'll give you that much. You really had me." 

Max takes a few hasty steps forward, her hands raised. She wants to grab him, touch him, just freeze frame and explain this. "It's not what it looks like," she says brokenly, "All of this, it's -- it's messed up and weird but I  _can_  explain. I-I didn't tell you the truth. I didn't, okay? But I  _swear_  it wasn't to manipulate you! It never was."

"Right," Nathan mumbles roughly. "It was just to get me to tell you all of that crap, right? About my family? About my father? Why else would Chloe Price's best friend give a shit about seeing me?" 

"It's not--"

"Then you can go and tell the Price lawyer all my family's dirty little secrets. Because you and everybody else wants to see me torn apart in this trial. So you can turn  _everything_  I said against me--"

" _No_ \--"

"And the whole town is gonna believe you, because it's me. It's fucking me." He shrugs. "You know what, it's really my fault. I should've known this would happen. I let you in. I made myself think you were -- that you were actually different."

Max feels like someone is wrapping a suffocating blanket tight around her neck, constricting her throat. "Please, hear me out," she pleads. 

Nathan shakes his head again, and her words trail off helplessly. His body is as rigid as rock. 

"I know I deserve this," he says, his voice brittle. "You don't have to tell me that I do. Everything that ever happened to me is my fucking fault. And the second I think I have something good,  _finally_  have something good come into my life that miraculously hasn't been tainted by shit..." He swallows hard. "...It's the same. Again."

Max glances back at Nell, desperate for help, but she is still distracted, none-the-wiser to the hurricane currently tearing through the room. She writes furiously in her paperwork, head bowed, shoulders a tired line. 

"Was any of it real?" he asks the air. 

" _All_  of it."

"I'm an idiot," Nathan lets loose a dark laugh. "You came out of fucking nowhere, Max Caulfield. You just show up here and you can understand me without me having to even open my mouth. I actually thought it was...  _luck_. And I kept wondering why you stuck around. What it was about me that you liked so damn much. But I get it now. And I'll go along with it." He meets her gaze, frighteningly resigned. "If the Price's want my head, they can have it. Fuckin' trust me, because I'm ready. You can tell them that I killed Rachel, and I'll nod my head in court. Really. Because I deserve it. I deserve everything I get."

"But you  _didn't_ kill Rachel!"

Nathan barely hears her. He scrubs a hand tiredly through his rumpled hair. 

"I-I don't have it now," Max babbles, "but Carmin has a photo. Photographic evidence of you  _and_ Rachel in the junkyard that day. You're  _both_  drugged," Max says breathlessly. "Nathan, you need to listen to me. Jefferson must have--"

"Why would I listen to anything you have to say?"

"Because I'm telling you the TRUTH--"

Nathan sighs. "Max, stop."

" _I'm serious--_ "

"Go ahead. Tell me whatever you want to calm me down. But the Price's don't get to ambush me in court with that one. I know what I did. I know, and I have to fucking live with it. I deserve it."

"But--"

"I'll go to prison. I-I  _need_  to."

"But you DIDN'T--"

" _Max!_ "

Max jumps at his hiss, the first raise of his voice since she came into the room. 

"Stop it," he snaps. "You can't fix me, Max. So stop trying."

She can feel a sheen of anxiety-induced sweat across her forehead, and the dribble of tears down her cheeks. Her heart is slamming at a furious pace. 

Her brain hisses  _tell him tell him_ but her mouth is lifeless. The story is too complicated for him to even take seriously right now. She could start with the events that caused Chloe to live, and the catastrophic consequences that followed. She could start at the end of the story, where she lies frozen and furious on the Dark Room floor with Nathan buried in the ground. She could start anywhere, but the horrific sense that he won't believe any of it doesn't lift. 

Max shivers, despite the heat plummeting through her veins. Nathan stands, staring at her as his face drains to ashen. He is upset. He is disappointed. He is hurt. He looks at her like he's never seen her before and it is a kick to the stomach. 

Her brain jerkily kicks itself into overdrive. Suddenly, all of her thoughts congregate into one deafening buzz that rings in her ears. Through the disorientation, through all of that panic and  _do something -- say something -- ANYTHING_ comes one sudden, single voice of calm. 

Telling her that she has to. She must. Because she can't lose him.

She won't lose him.

Max raises her palms and calls for a rewind. It's been eight months, but she doesn't give a shit anymore. This is something she can't fix by herself. 

Her eyes slip shut and she tries to visualize the perfect place to rewind to. The place she can explain herself properly and prevent Nathan looking at her like this, like she's nothing but another Prescott, another liar, another disappointment he never should have depended on. Should she rewind to two hours ago and call him? Should she rewind to last week, even -- last month -- Christmas --  _October_  -- 

She's prepared for the consequences. She's come too far, sacrificed too much. The universe owes her a fucking favour. 

She almost feels the waves of pulsing movement beneath her outstretched fingertips.

She's  _rewinding_ , she has to be, she feels it quake in her bones and stir in her stomach--

She'll fix this. She always does. She can fix anything. There's  _always_  a way to fix everything--

"Max?"

Her skin prickles with frazzled heat. Her heart jolts like she's missed a step on the staircase. She's going to go back, back to a time when she can tell him and tell Joyce. Avoid this terrible sense that Nathan is giving up--

Her eyes open. How far she did she rewind back?

But, there is Nathan. The same as before. His eyes wide and bewildered and red. 

Staring at her, like she's grown three separate heads. Her breath burns in her chest. 

"We're still here," she murmurs. " _Shit_. How? No! I thought -- I really thought--"

"What the hell are you doing?" Nathan rasps. 

She falls still, a deer in headlights.

"Max?"

"Nathan, please, there's... a very long and complicated explanation for all of this."

Her rewind is definitely gone. Had it  _ever_  been there in the first place, over the last eight months? Was it gradually chipped away or was it always completely defunct? She should have tested this earlier. She shouldn't have guessed or hoped. She's so  _stupid._  Why did she leave it so late, when she needed it the most--

"I want to help you," Max tells him shakily. "I  _didn't lie_. There's so much that you don't know about all of this crazy shit that's been happening. I don't expect you to believe me, but you need to listen. You have to."

Nathan gives her a long, steady stare. 

"What the hell is up with you?" he murmurs. "I shot your  _best friend._ Y-You saw me do it."

Max trembles. "Yeah, but--"

"I'm not your pet project you can nurse back to fucking health," he grunts, and it's obvious it's becoming harder for him to sound resigned. "What the hell do you want from me? I already told you, I'm  _more_  than happy to go to prison for what I did. Everyone can rest easy. Hell, give me the fucking key and I'll throw it away myself."

"Nathan."

"Why didn't you tell me? If you really cared about me, you would've."

"I know," Max breathes. "But it was never the right time."

Nathan frowns. "Do you know where I am? Where I've fucking been for the past eight months? All I have is time!" He freezes then, and slowly, reigns himself back in. His tense shoulders fall, his jaw unfixes. His eyes glaze with detached tiredness and Max feels something tangible snap clean and new in the room. 

"Nathan, Carmin thinks we're ready for next week, but I have to make sure that you understand what really happened to Rachel. You can't go into that court room defeated."

"Can't I?"

"No. I won't let you."

Profound confusion paints him. "You won't let me? Max, do you _know_ what I've done?"

"Yes, I do. Do you know what your father could do if next week is a huge disaster?"

Nathan gives her a long, lingering look. He is pale and small-looking, nothing like the imposing thunderstorm that had once crashed through the hallways of Blackwell Academy. "What side are you on?" he asks.

"Yours. _And_ Chloe's. I can be on both."

"You're making zero sense."

"I know. But there's an explanation, and it's one that I _know_ you'll believe." She moves towards him, voice softening. "Nathan, it's me. It's _me_."

"That doesn't mean shit to me," he says coldly. "It's you? Well, who the hell are you? Because I thought you were the first genuine fuckin' person that I'd ever met. Somebody who'd never lie to me. And it turns out you're _just like_ everybody else, with your ulterior-fucking-motives."

"I never lied! I just... left stuff out. And, for the record, so did _you_. You lied to me about Rachel!" 

Surprisingly, Nathan nods. 

But his answering smile is bitter.

"Looks like we're as bad as each other, huh?" He turns away. "You never should have come here in the first place. We're not... good, you and me."

"But we are," Max tries desperately. "I wasn't just coming here to see you. I - Nathan, for God's sake, don't you get it? It was for me too. Every time I got to come here, it was a break from all the bullshit going on in my life."

"Your life must be seriously fucked up to find a break in this place."

"It wasn't the hospital," Max says, her breath burning her throat. "It was you. _You_."

For a second, she tricks herself into thinking she sees hope in him.

But that thought evaporates, the moment he turns away from her.

"I'm tired. I want you to go." 

Max's chest is still too tight. A fresh wash of tears bubble up in her eyes. "But I need to tell you--"

"Every time you open your mouth, you confuse the shit out of me. I don't care what your game was. I don't care." He laughs, low in his throat. "You wanted to help me, huh? Well, maybe you just can't save everyone." He swallows. "Get out."

Max shakes her head, her voice small. "Don't do this."

"Don't call me," he murmurs. "And don't come by here anymore."

A great collapse occurs in the centre of Max's chest. 

If she could rewind, she might be able to--

But she can't. 

She turns on her heel, and half-stumbles out the door, ignoring the way Nell looks up and after her, as she begins to pull out her earphone and assess what the hell just happened.

Max doesn't know. This wasn't supposed to happen. 

She sniffles into her sleeve on the elevator ride down, ducking her head past the receptionist, who shoots her a startled look. The air is too thick and she chokes on it, coughing on a sob as she pushes out into the icy sheets of unforgiving rain. 

She's early for the bus. She takes refuge under the archway at the front door and wipes furiously at her streaming eyes, the hole ripped from her chest pulsing with a throbbing ache. 

She thinks, underneath the dregs of sorrow and panic, that she's angry. She's _angry_. She tried, for fuck's sake. She's been trying to fix this since the beginning, to smooth out any possible bump or crinkle that could arise in this new aftermath, in order to keep Arcadia Bay happy, in order to keep the _universe_ happy. And still, like always, it's not enough. She can't do anything right.

She digs in her pocket for her phone, yanking her hood up as she brings it to her ear.

Carmin answers on the fourth ring, her voice hassled. "Max? I'm afraid I'm busy at the moment, can you call back?"

"He knows. I don't know how, but he knows," Max says in a morose rush. "He doesn't trust me anymore."

"What? Who -- what are you talking about?"

"Nathan!" His name hurts her mouth. "He found out that I was in the bathroom, that I was friends with Chloe. And now he thinks I've been manipulating information out of him, to give to Chloe's defense."

Carmin pauses.

"And?"

" _And?_ " Max spits. "He hates me! The chances of him believing that I'm trying to help him at the trial have been turned into shit!"

"I disagree. Nathan is going to testify against his father whether you're holding his hand or not. He's a big boy, Max. I wouldn't worry about his co-operation."

Max lifts her head, hair falling into her eyes. "Wait a second," she says, "he said on the phone -- you're the only one who was at the hospital before I was this week. _You_ told him." She scowls. "It was you, wasn't it?"

Carmin's voice is frustratingly calm. Almost bored. "It slipped out. I'd actually forgotten it was something he didn't know. When were you planning on telling him? The day of the trial?"

"You should have asked me," Max snaps. "I wanted to tell him myself. Now he's _pissed_ and won't even look at me."

Carmin sighs. "There are more important things going on right now than your relationships, Max."

"But now he's ready to walk into prison!" Max argues. "He thinks I've told Joyce everything and he's as good as done." 

"I'll talk to him." Carmin sighs again impatiently. "Listen, I have a meeting."

"Fine," Max grits out, and hangs up, her chest blooming with fresh outrage. 

Incensed, she swings around on her heel and kicks aggressively at a nearby rose bush. The saturated leaves quiver and jerk in response, rain drops flying off in every direction, a few stray petals tumbling to the soggy earth. Max pants, scowling at the ground, at the damp wall of the hospital.

She stops. 

Something is written on the wall. 

Max sinks into a crouch, her lips parting in confusion. 

_Graffiti here?_ Max thinks. _At the hospital?_

She leans closer, reaching a hand out to touch.

It's... fresh.

The handwriting is strangely familiar. Something colder than wind prickles the skin at the base of her skull. The words have been written in a bizarre, almost frantic hurry. They are slanted, like whoever put them here was being dragged away by the ankles at the same time. 

Max's fingers meet the moist, cold brick. She reads the words. 

 

_OUT OF TIME. SORRY._

_THEY ARE IMPATIENT, BUT I'LL DO WHAT I CAN._

 

Max jumps back suddenly, as if electrocuted. 

_They?_ she thinks, reading the words back over.

_They who?_

 

 

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I survived November to January, the absolute hell time for college students!!! I mean, I mostly survived. Please note this chapter is NOT edited yet, I'll be doing that tomorrow, so if you notice any spelling errors / general errors they are entirely the fault of me writing this in a haze of exhaustion. This chapter is also theory-heavy and details legal stuff = I am definitely not a lawyer, so my writing of the trial is based completely on all the research I could do. If there is anything glaringly incorrect or any of the theory is confusing, please let me know!
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your amazing patience and encouragement. I have the last couple of chapters fully planned out and I should be much, much more organised at getting them out ASAP for you guys. In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy this one <3
> 
> Four chapters left!

 

 

Hazy, black woodland. The trees are bony and skeletal, yet familiar somehow, spreading out vast around her. Max is pulled forwards, onwards, steadily by warm fingers encircling her wrist. Chloe is leading her deeper into the trees, her calloused palm pressing solidly against Max's own. 

The chilly rasp in Max's lungs, and the stiff ache in her knees, tells her that they've been walking for a long time. 

Something --  _someone?_  -- keeps darting between the trees in front of them, behind them, and next to them, all at the same time; ducking down into the wild brush and undergrowth every single time Max turns her head to take a look. A maddening game of hide-and-seek. Her chest is like a clock, wound-up tight with jittery nerves, but Chloe seems certain, determined. It radiates off her, almost pulsing in a colorful aura. 

"Chloe," she tries. 

"It's okay," Chloe breathes back, and somehow her voice is everywhere, in the sky, in the trees, hurrying along the soil. "We're almost there." 

Max inhales and tastes dirt, sweat and damp. She can't see the path Chloe is taking, but she feels it firmly beneath her feet, growing less and less packed the longer they walk. It isn't long before her shoes are squelching wetly in thick, syrupy mud, sliding on jagged rocks. The mud is like quicksand, and Max winces as it pools around her ankles. She latches onto Chloe's shoulder like a child, momentarily amazed by the painful familiarity of her skin. 

And then suddenly, a beam of light. Blindingly bright and milky-white, searing like headlights through the tree gaps. The path rises sharply, tilts high, and all of a sudden they're climbing. Max's calves lodge a tangible protest, but for some reason she can't stop. She doesn't think Chloe will even let her. She is tugged along automatically, as though the two of them are connected, wrist to wrist, by loops of invisible rope. 

Chloe's gait is hurried, but not frantic. It is this that gives Max a momentary sense of soothing. 

They climb until Max's eyes fall on the looming building a short distance away, stretching up to an iron, starless sky. 

"The lighthouse?" Max says, jamming her left heel into the earth to stop herself from slipping. 

Chloe glances back at her, but her features are obscured by the brightness of the lighthouse's glow. "We gotta make it there," she exclaims, "just keep going."

The wind is picking up, growing eager to snap at them. Max stiffens, shivers, and fumbles for Chloe's hand again. She squeezes her fingers tightly, unable to comprehend the fact that  _she's here,_ she's really here, and although none of this makes sense, Max isn't about to question Chloe's presence. Chloe always knows what to do, she'll get them out of this shadowy nothingness. Chloe squeezes back, and Max feels the electric sparks that pop from her touch skittering up her arm, skidding down her spine. 

She wants them to slow down for a second, to just stop for one moment before the darkness takes Chloe away again. The frustration of having no time, always not enough time, washes over her in waves. 

Chloe breaks into a half-jog when they reach the top of the grassy hill. She stumbles over a threatening pool of mud and rock, and drops Max's hand while she regains her balance. But the second their hands pull apart, Max suffers an overwhelming, horrific sense of distance, and an awful panic that Chloe has disappeared. Frantically, Max cries out, fingers fumbling in the dark and clutching at nothing. 

"Chill!" Chloe's there again, warm hands curving around Max's quivering shoulders. She smells like cigarette smoke and rust, and underneath, like something sweeter, something that makes Max think about childhood, and it twists at her chest like a sorrowful knife. 

"I thought you were--"

"I'm here." Chloe turns, lacing their fingers together once more. "Come on, slowpoke! Just a little further."

The closer they get, the more something becomes evident to Max. There is something  _off_  about the lighthouse. The beam is bright to the point of it being surreal, too shimmery and ethereal. Plus, the structure itself actually seems... fuzzy around the edges. It reminds Max of a photo not fully developed, given minimum exposure in a dingy dark room. There is also a bizarre heaviness to the air up here, it is almost unbreathable, solidifying in her lungs. Her ears are ringing, her heart jack-hammering. 

Chloe pulls her right up to the door of it, the door locked to the public for years. She stares at it hard, her expression unreadable. 

"What's happening?" Max feels like she has to shout over the loud drum of her blood. "Shit, Chloe--"

"We'll be safe here," Chloe's hands slide to her shoulders, the pads of her fingers pressing through the thin material of Max's shirt. 

"Why? What's going on?"

"You got this, do you hear me? You're a superhero. You're  _my_  superhero."

Someone has ripped her brain from its socket. She short-circuits, mouth gummy and dry. She's stumbling over her breath and her words. "Chloe."

"I'm so proud of you," Chloe says. Her voice is brittle, but she smiles through it. "Fuck, you have no idea how much."

"Chloe." She's surprised by the hot splash of tears on her cheeks, such a contrast against the icy gusts. "I'm so sorry. I-I..." 

Chloe shakes her head wildly.

"No, I don't wanna hear any apologies. I don't regret a single minute."

Max's head tips back, her gaze straining to make out the top of the lighthouse. It seems to stretch on forever, melting into the bottomless sky. 

"W-What do I have to do?"

"What you do best," Chloe smirks, and suddenly they're eight years old again, fighting with glued wooden swords in the Price backyard. "Save people. From, you know, impending doom."

The meaning is lost on Max, and she scowls in confusion. But that feeling returns then, the feeling of running out of time. It makes her skin crawl with a horrific desperation -- to say everything on her mind, to drink in every bit of Chloe she can.

The wind growls, not menacing but warning her. Her breath hitches as she grabs Chloe's hands. 

"I--" Max flounders for a moment. "I wish you were here."

Chloe gives her this look, like Max just said something profoundly stupid and amusing, all at once. "But I  _am_  here." She points to Max's chest, at the space between her ribs, like it's obvious. 

"But it's not the same."

Chloe smiles, but there is something frail about it. "Yeah." 

"And it's not fair. It's not fucking fair at  _all_."

"I know."

"I'm scared."

"I know."

Rain has mixed with the wind, sharp and biting. Max lifts a hand and shields her face as it roars around her, tossing her hair around her face.

"Why are we here?" she shouts. "Why the lighthouse?"

"Because this is where it started. And this is where it needs to end."

Confusion again, swirling like smoke around her brain.

"What--"

Her words are lost, swallowed by an overpowering blast of wind. The rain turns torrential and unforgiving, tiny but brutally icy punches against her skin. 

Chloe's hands release her, and the moment they do, Max realizes with a monstrous drop in her stomach that they had been the only thing keeping her tethered to the ground. She stumbles backwards, heart clambering up her throat, as the darkness suddenly shoots up on all sides like walls, enveloping her.

She's falling. No,  _hurtling._  Her mind somersaults and spins and whizzes impossibly,  and the blackness, that hazy blackness, swallows her up. She's going to hit the ground, smash against a flat, agonizing nothing, that will shatter her bones like glass---

Max startles awake with an aggressive jolt, as though woken by a kick to the gut. 

She bolts upright, gasping. She's in her dorm. The air is dry and warm and definitely not licked with rain. Her breath rushes out, deflating her.  _I'm good, I'm safe,_ she thinks forcefully.  _Safe safe safe safe._ If she thinks it hard enough, the feeling might stick. 

She's fallen asleep with the light on again, on top of the covers in her wrinkled pajamas. The glow of her dorm lights must have been an influence on that wacko fucking dream, tricking her brain into conjuring up a surreal image of the lighthouse, of Chloe--

Dragging a hand across her sweat-dampened hair, Max trembles.  _Chloe._

It had really felt like she was  _right there_ , only a hair's breadth away. It had been so  _real_ , so visceral. How could her brain remember Chloe's scent so vividly? Maybe it's always been in there, buried subconsciously, or else pushed beneath the mental rubble covering everything she'd rather not focus on.

Max kicks off the sheets and stares down at her feet, honestly expecting to see them wet  and slick with forest mud and crunchy leaves. But they're clean. Of course they are.  _Just a dream_ , _just a dream._

She frowns at the only half-touched plate of grilled cheese sitting by her bed. This is definitely the last time she has a midnight snack. She makes a mental note to jot  _CHEESE + EXHAUSTION = WILD FUCKING NIGHTMARES_  in her journal, once her hands stop shaking. 

She sits up slowly, still trying to regulate her breathing, pulling her knees close to her chest. Goosebumps have risen along her skin, even though she's sweaty-hot. A bleary glance at her phone reveals that it's five minutes past one am. The others snore peacefully in their rooms, oblivious. She feels alone, and fragile, a frightened child with no one to comfort it from the spindly, grabbing arms of its worst nightmares. 

For the umpteenth time, Max's thoughts shift to Nathan. 

He would know what to do, what to say. Her eyes flutter shut as she imagines this situation, only he's right there next to her, not miles away and alone himself. His voice, husky with sleep, saying exactly what she needs to hear, comforting her the way only a fellow insomniac can. He'd be warm, eyes creased and soft, hair loose of its gel and wild in wispy curls. 

Her chest stings, once her thoughts inevitably turn to Wednesday, to her catastrophic, monumental fuck-up. 

Max isn't used to fighting with people, to being...  _hated_. Even the vehement disdain that Victoria had shown for her in the worst of times couldn't even be called real hate. That had been something simple and juvenile, as easily forgotten as it was easily created. And she'd fought with Chloe sure, but those mouthy disagreements had been best-friend certified, never wholly serious, the words never deliberately intended to strike or to bruise. They knew each other too well, for that. Even as kids, any shrill argument on the playground had been breezily forgotten after ten minutes, at the absolute most. They had always slowly gravitated back to one another. Like magnets. 

She wonders, hopefully, whether she and Nathan could be a pair of magnets. But she knows it's wishful thinking. She's hurt him, taken his uneasily given trust and broken it into pieces. 

The way he had looked at her, his eyes cold and disinterested, keeps on flashing across her mind. Each time, it doesn't hurt any less. She had walked into the room his friend, his...  _something_. And she'd walked out of it a total stranger. 

 

She is confused by a sense of comfort that he's also probably awake right now. She wishes she could call. 

This is loneliness, she tells herself. She's spent months dodging it, and yet here it is, as suffocating as ever. 

She is standing in the middle of the room, arms hugged around herself and trying not to pace, when there comes a soft but insistent rap against her door. 

Max freezes, arms falling to her sides. 

She stares at the door, taken aback. The seconds drag by into a full minute. 

Then her phone buzzes with a text. 

 

_I know it's late as hell and there's a 65% chance you're asleep (actual calculations I actually did) but if you aren't, can you please open the door??_

 

Max shuffles towards the door, baffled, her bare feet pressing soft indentations into the carpet.

Her hand hesitates on the handle, but she eventually pulls it open. It creaks audibly and she winces.

"Hey!"

Warren looks...

Well, crazed, for lack of a better word. His hair is all over the place, like he's been yanking at it for two hours straight. His eyes are manic, darting about in his head and rimmed with the red, puffy eyeliner of No Sleep. He's in plaid pajama pants and this too-big dark red hoodie that she  _knows_  he only wears if everything else is dirty, and his laptop is tucked under one arm. He smells like the crisp night air and something sugary sweet and familiar. Plus, the circles under his eyes are so embedded, they've surely established their own government by now.

"Warren?" Max whispers, half-panicked Wells will suddenly materialize from the shadows, always keen to the scent of a Boy After Curfew. She steps back and holds the door open for him to slip inside. 

He collapses on her bed immediately, scooting up to prop his back against the wall. "It's  _freezing_  out there! It's supposed to be May, goddamn it--"

"Are you high?" Max rakes her gaze over him, astonished. "You look--"

"Nah, you know I don't blaze." He sniffs. "It's the Red Bull."

"Red Bull?"

"It helps me study."

"How  _much_  did you drink?"

"...Enough to make me worried about what'll happen if I stop."

Max locks the door before sitting down next to him, gazing at him with a mixture of affection and bewilderment, as he unfolds his laptop and starts it up. "Um, not that you're not welcome in my cave slash domain, but what exactly are you doing here?"

"I gotta show you something," he says, brows furrowed in focus.

"And it couldn't wait until the sun comes up?"

"Well you're awake, aren't you?" Warren retorts brightly. "How come, by the way? I mean, sleep is now nothing but a historic concept to me--"

"Probably thanks to the Red Bull," Max interjects. 

"True. So why  _are_  you still up?"

She shrugs. "Seriously weird dream."

"Wanna talk about it?" 

Max pauses, clutching the blankets in one fist. 

"I was at the lighthouse, with Chloe."

"Doesn't sound too weird." His laptop's booted up, and he starts typing. It looks like he's pulling up web pages. 

"But it was. I guess it just  _felt_  super crazy. She was right in front of me, literally right there, and... and it was like she had something to tell me."

"She didn't say what?"

"No, she didn't get a chance. This...  _storm_ came out of nowhere, and then I woke up."

"...Storm?"

"I know," Max swallows. "It's unsettling. I guess I should try and figure out what it means."

"Well, I'm no dream analyst," Warren says, "but honestly, it sounds pretty normal to me. I mean think about it, why  _wouldn't_  Chloe be crashing your dreams? The trial is only a couple days away." He nudges her. "You're just on edge. And I don't blame you." 

Max hums thoughtfully, his words feeling rational to her. "Maybe you're right." 

"You should see  _my_  nightmares lately."

"Number two pencils trying to murder you? Textbooks smothering you?"

"You know me too damn well, Mad Max." 

Max inclines her head in the direction of his laptop. "You know I think you're a finals warrior, Warren, but if you came over here to compare flash cards or something--" 

"No, it's nothing like that." Warren stops then and looks at her, an interesting gleam in his eyes. "It's, ah, actually about that weird shit that you asked me to look into."

She studies him for a beat, her brain still trying to drag itself out of the murky depths of the dream.

"That poem thing," she says finally, "the dwelling place above the heavens."

"Spoiler alert, it's not a poem." He motions for her to scooch closer. "I did some digging tonight, my brain's fried with these finals and I needed the distraction. But I... started turning up some really insane crap, and, well, I just  _couldn't_  tell you about it over text."

He turns his laptop so she can see it. She leans in, frowning. The website is plain, a white background with thick, black font, and zero pictures and no splash of color of any kind. It reads at first like an info dump, paragraphs detailing names and places and things she can't even guess the meaning of. 

"So check this: that graffiti you found, about the dwelling place," he tells her, "it's a  _prophecy_. It originated with the Hopi tribe, ever heard of them?"

Max shakes her head. 

"Me neither. But Google is my best bro." He switches to another tab. This second website is brighter, heavy with faded photographs depicting small clusters of Native Americans in their beautiful cultural garbs. "These Hopi dudes," he goes on, "they were Arcadia Bay's very  _first_  settlers. Way, way, way back. Most of the history sites I checked out all consider them to be this town's founders."

"Ms. Grant," Max replies, a lightbulb clicking alight at the center of her mind. "They have to be the ancestors she's always talking about. Good find, Warren."

"Not even close to being done. I've been at this shit for  _hours_ ," he says proudly. Then pauses, smile fading. "Damn, it really was a lot of Red Bull." 

"Consider yourself officially banned." 

He flips tabs again, to a simple but lengthy Wikipedia page. "So, this prophecy of theirs is made up of nine signs. That dwelling place, as well as that 'blue star' mention you also found, both of 'em are included in the ninth sign."

"What is this prophecy actually... prophesying?" Max asks, with some concern.

"Some  _2012_ -level apocalypse shit."

"What?"

He moves the mouse to hover over a particular paragraph, and begins to read aloud, " _The Blue Star Kachina is said to be the ninth and final sign before the 'Day of Purification', described as a catastrophe or a 'world-engulfing catacylsm' that will lead to the purification of planet Earth"._

"Catastrophe? World-engulfing cataclysm?" Max blurts, eyes popping. "Um, I don't like  _any_  of those words!" She leans closer to the screen, practically nose-to-nose with it. "Did they give a reason for why the Earth had to be... purified?"

Warren nods. "Simply put, the complete and utter corruption of humanity." 

"...What's a Kachina?" 

"Dolls, that the Hopi's carve," Warren explains, but he's frowning. "Apparently they act as... messengers? Between this world and the spirit world." 

Max brings up the photo of the graffiti on her phone, narrowing her eyes at it as she reads. "This dwelling place," she begins, reading aloud, "it's going to  _fall with a great crash. It will appear as a blue star."_

"Here is my one am, energy drink-drenched theory," Warren clears his throat, "I think, whoever wrote that grafitti wants you to look out for... some kind of big-ass doll falling from the sky."

Max stares at him for a beat. 

"My head hurts," she states.

Goosebumps have risen on her arms, along the back of her neck. She runs her fingertips over them, the crease between her eyes frowning.

"Ms. Grant told me something interesting a few months ago," she adds slowly. "She said that the energy of Arcadia's first settlers was still  _here_ , that they were still... tied to this town. She actually called them 'spiritual guardians'." 

"Aren't 'spiritual guardians' supposed to... guardian? Like, watch over us and shit?" Warren asks confusedly. "What kind of guardian wants to fucking obliterate the Earth?"

"I don't know." Max presses her hands to her eyes. Pain is beginning to pop behind them, the first pinpricks of a migraine. "The term 'world-engulfing cataclysm' definitely does not sound like a fun time."

"I hear ya." He folds his arms, thinking. "What else did Ms. Grant say?"

"She said the reason the Hopi are still connected to Arcadia is because they were so happy here. It was a utopia to them. And they had some sort of... vision of what they wanted this town to be. They wanted it to stay as it was forever." 

"Arcadia Bay, a utopia?" Warren says sarcastically. "People are losing their jobs, the woods are being fucking wiped out by Pan Estates, and Sean Prescott has his hand in everybody's pocket. How far we've fallen, huh?" 

His words, her mind tackles them the second they fall from his lips. They strike her, hard and alarming. A hot cloud of thought rushes over her entire body, yanking and pulling at her mind for attention.

"Warren."

He hums, listening. 

"What if -- What if they don't want to cleanse the entire Earth, but instead a very  _specific_  part of that Earth?"

He stares at her like she is a complicated math equation, more riddles than rational numbers. But she doesn't care about making sense, because  _holy shit_ , her thoughts are a swelling tide, rushing faster and faster. Her brain is hastily putting together a jigsaw puzzle, connecting dots. Her brain stumbles like a jogger on a track, desperate to grasp all of the answers rising to the surface before they sprint out of reach forever. 

"Arcadia," Max says urgently, "is corrupted, right? You just said it. It's turned so far away from what they wanted this town's destiny to be, a place of - of peace and prosperity, that... maybe they're afraid. They're _losing_  Arcadia Bay,  _their_  home."

"To Sean Prescott?"

"His Pan Estates project is destroying the enviornment, wiping out nature. He's taken over the rights to the bay and drying up the fish stocks. He's expoliting... everybody, and everything. He's fucking up what the Hopi want to protect."

A wrinkle appears between Warren's eyebrows. "So, that graffiti you found--"

"It's a  _warning_."

Warren blinks a couple times, as if rousing from a slumbering dream. 

"The ancestors  _are_  still here!" Max hisses. Her tongue feels too big for her mouth, getting in the way of all the words fighting to get out. "They want to purify Arcadia, they want to make it perfect again."

"How?"

"By getting rid of Sean Prescott." Max drags a hand across her face. Her skin is burning. "Warren, it  _has_  to be Dean Prescott leaving me these messages."

"You think Nathan's dead brother is writing on the walls for you?"

"What about this whole thing isn't crazy?" Max sighs hard, "I never even met him, but every time something bizarro happens around here, I just get this  _feeling_  that of something familiar, that's it him. Like a voice in my head." 

"Hey, if you believe it's him, then I'm right there with you. Serious." Still, he grimaces. "Dean couldn't, like... hit us up with something more descriptive though, could he? A labelled diagram, fuck, skywriting? This is way too cryptic." 

Exhaustion is creeping back into her bones, contrasted starkly by a hot adrenaline, rocketing through her blood simultaneously.

"I wish," she says, half-smiling. 

"So if these messages are a warning, then,  _why?_ " Warren taps his knuckles impatiently against the keys. "If he seems to know what's up, then he knows you're going after his father. He knows the Hopi are going after him too, apparently. Somehow. Wouldn't he be trying to warn  _him?_ "

A single thought comes to Max, a possible explanation for what Warren has just said.

Her stomach turns into an ice-cold chasm. 

 _No,_  is her second thought.  _Hardly_.  _That's--_

"Max?"

She opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again. The upsetting thought stirs menacingly, burrowing right into her cells.  _Acknowledge me, believe me, what if I'm right? What if--_

The sense of Dean Prescott, that gnawing, peculiar feeling plaguing her for months now, drifts suddenly through her awareness. A hand waving in the dark. 

And it's nodding to the dark, impossible thought. It's telling her yes. 

_SORRY. OUT OF TIME._

_I'LL DO WHAT I CAN._

She knows, then. Immediately. 

Her heart slips, comes loose from whatever holds it stable. It plummets into her gut and Max clutches suddenly at her chest, at its empty feeling. 

"I-I don't think it's about Sean," she says quietly. The color is draining from her face, dribbling out like watercolors. "Shit.  _Shit_. Warren, that's it, that's--"

"Max? What's wrong?"

"It's about Sean, but it's about Nathan too."

"What?"

"Oh my God.  _Crap_ \--"

"Slow down," Warren urges. He closes the lid of his laptop, expression blanketed in concern. "Tell me what you're thinking."

After a deep lungful of air and a trembling pause, Max says, "A little while ago, I talked to that homeless lady, the one that sits behind the Two Whales. And she said something that just struck me as... off. It didn't make any sense, until now."

Warren listens, eyebrows arched. 

"The Hopi," she whispers. "They're... pissed. Every bad thing that ever happened to Arcadia, they blame it on the Prescotts."

"How do you--"

"Just listen. And trust me."

"I do. You know I do."

She takes a moment to align her thoughts as orderly as she can in her overflowing mind. 

"So the prophecy," Warren says hastily, "it's all about cleaning up a place that's been corrupted. Max, the Prescotts are the corruption. At least Sean is. It's him that the ancestors want to get rid of --"

"And when they do, Arcadia will be free again. Ready to be molded into their perfect utopia."

But the words stick to her tongue, gluey and...  _wrong_. That other sense within her, it seems to be pulling away from what she's said. 

"So Nathan's in danger," Warren asks, eyes widening. "Max--"

Max is distracted by the growing sensation that there is more to this. She's missing something. The answer lies frustratingly out of reach. 

She shuts her eyes tight. Pushes her fingers into the ache spreading across her forehead.

And then, all of a sudden, the answer pops up in a strange form.

The homeless woman's eyes flash dangerously in her memory. 

_The problem isn't the rotten apple, you know. It's the whole damn barrel. All of Arcadia needs to be washed of its sins, not just one family._

Her stomach fills with ice water. 

"No," she says loudly. "It's more than that. It's not just the Prescotts. It's -- It's  _everyone_."

These words sit better. They feel correct.

Max wishes with every fiber of her being that they didn't. 

"How do you--"

"They want to start over," Max interrupts, and she can feel her skin growing hot with the vibrant pulse of her thoughts. "Wipe Arcadia clean, so they can protect it.  _Perfect_  it."

Warren recoils. The circles under his eyes seem to actually growing darker. "How?" he hisses. "They're -- not even alive anymore. What can they do? There's no way they can take an entire town off the map."

"Think about how angry they must be, to end up tied to Arcadia, not able to move on," Max muses, heart hammering. "If their feelings are strong enough to keep them... God, here, in whatever form it may be, I don't think they'd have a problem conjuring up a way to 'purify' this town."

Warren is swallowing rapidly. "Max, what are you saying? Are we - Are we actually in danger?"

Her hands are trembling again. "I wouldn't underestimate them," she says. "I-I don't know. Dean's obviously trying to stop them, too." She swallows too fast and almost chokes. "I have to talk to Samuel."

"Samuel?" Warren frowns. "Why?"

"Just trust me," she says shakily. "He has to have the answers. To how we can go about preventing this."

"This? What's ' _this_ '?"

"Whatever they're planning on doing! The ancestors."

"But they've apparently been hanging around here for - for fucking centuries. How--" Warren splutters, face flushed. "Jesus, this is so heavy." 

"Heavier than Calculus?"

"A gazillion times heavier." Warren says sternly. "Max, I don't like this. This sounds crazy dangerous."

She pauses, hands carding through her hair. 

"We have to break their hold on Arcadia," Max says. "Show them that Arcadia doesn't belong to anyone, not them, not even the Prescotts."

"How?"

"By getting Sean Prescott behind bars," she growls. "We end his dictatorship, and when we do, we fix what he broke. We show them Arcadia isn't a freakin' lost cause, that they have no right to take it from us. We show them fate is fate and you can't interfere with it."

Warren half-smiles. "Well, sounds simple enough," he says dryly.

"Or maybe it's nothing," Max adds after a moment, voice quiet. "Maybe it's just my brain being all messed up again. Trying to distract me from finals and the fact we have to leave here soon. Maybe the graffiti is just... graffiti."

"I'd definitely like to think that," Warren admits. "I'll take your daydreaming over a world-engulfing cataclysm any day."

Max smiles thinly. Warren elbows her.

"You look beat," he says. "I'll get out of here, let you get some sleep."

"Wait," she catches his arm as he moves to stand up, "but what if we are right? What if Arcadia is actually being controlled by this tribe? Then Nathan's in serious trouble. Then we're _all_ in serious trouble-

"You really think the universe would fuck you over twice?"

Max hesitates. "I have no idea why it would. I don't even have my powers anymore. There's nothing to screw up." 

"And you already saved this town once," Warren says, with a breath of awe. "The Hopi could've lost Arcadia to that freak tornado if it wasn't for you. They freakin' owe _you._ "

"But Dean's still trying to get my attention," she says. "Why is he still _here?_ "

"Because he fucked up?" Warren suggests. "I mean, the survey shows that he was a bad egg. He was all for what Sean was doing, apparently. Poor bastard is probably drowning in regret, now that he's gone."

"You think?"

"I used to watch a lot of _Ghost Whisperer_. The dead guys who were stuck between two worlds were always trying to repent for something messed up they did, and they couldn't cross-over until they were forgiven." 

"I don't think _Ghost Whisperer_ is the hard proof we need."

Warren stands, his laptop returning to its spot beneath his arm. "We're gonna expose this ring to everybody in the country," he says determinedly. "And Sean Prescott is going to be toast. So, relax. If Dean really does want you to fix his mistakes, then you're going in the right direction."

Questions stack high on top of each other, a monumental mess of contradictions and confusion without a single answer underpinning any of them. After Warren leaves, Max wraps herself in her blankets and lies awake, staring unblinkingly at the dark ceiling above her head, trying to make herself stop thinking. 

She falls asleep at some point, dragged irresistibly under by her sore, itchy eyes and heavy bones. And she dreams again. 

Again, she remembers this one when she awakens, hours later to milky sunlight. 

The lighthouse again, a shadowy figure at its door, calling her name. 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Max tugs anxiously on the hem of her dress. She stares at herself in the mirror, at her stiff-backed posture and the way her fingers have curled into the fabric. The dress is black, plain, exactly what she needs to stay as under the radar as possible today. It's the dress she wore to Chloe's burial, and she swears she can smell the scent of the cemetery on it still: soapy earth and wilting flowers. 

She last wore this dress eight months ago. She regards her reflection carefully and honestly doesn't think she has changed that much. But everything else has. Max has felt nothing but immobile since October, stuck helplessly and rooted to the ground.  _Frozen in time_ , she thinks with a slight wrinkle of her nose. Meanwhile, everything around her has spun forward, rocketed into a completely different orbit. College applications and acceptance letters and plane tickets and new impossible heights. The river flows on, but Max feels like a useless twig pinned to the bedrock. Sometimes, like right now, standing in this dress with that look on her face and that overwhelming, heavy feeling in her gut, she still feels like she's in October. But the rest of the world has moved on. 

Behind her, her mom is fervently changing the sheets, opening the windows, flushing out the toxic depressive overhang that has permeated this room since Chloe died. Max kind of wants her to stop -- suddenly the room is too bright, the pale sunlight searing her eyes, revealing the spilled soda stains and crumbs on her desk that she never bothered to clean. The chill from the windows makes her shrink back, tighten her shoulders. Something has lifted off the room but, while her mom might feel it's something good, Max feels...a  bizarre sense of loss. Everything is changing again. The room, and what it meant up until now. Max's safe haven, where she doesn't have to pretend or try to act like everything's alright. She already lost her other safe haven, on Wednesday afternoons, sitting with a boy who never expected her to be anything but real and honest. 

The dorm room is all she has left. 

"You look lovely, honey," her mom says lightly, smiling at her reflection. 

"Thanks." Max thinks she looks worn out, exhausted, sickly. 

Her dad is sitting on the couch, one leg crossed over the other. Max can't remember the last time she saw him in an actual  _tie_  -- it's definitely been a few years. He looks awkward and uncertain and optimistic, and she glows with a moment of affection for her parents, who seem so large in this room, the room that usually only ever holds her. 

He checks his watch, a fat and well-worn chunky thing that he refuses to trade for something flashier and more expensive. "We should be going," he says, with the tone of someone who very much would prefer to stay here for the rest of the day. His eyes crinkle kindly when he smiles at Max. "You need some breakfast, kiddo?"

"We'll get something on the way," her mom suggests. 

"No," Max says, definitely not in the mood to sit in a crowded restaurant on this day, of all days. "It's okay. We should get to the courthouse early."

"Max, it's going to be a long day," her mom responds, shaking her head. 

She doesn't have the energy for this. She turns from the mirror, fixing a pasty smile on her face. "Fine, okay."

Breakfast ends up being sticky blueberry muffins from the gas station her father stops at, but Max is content with it. She's too distracted by the marathon speed of her brain to concentrate on anything but what's going to happen today. The muffin sticks like glue in her throat. 

It'll take over an hour to get to Portland. She watches the familiar sights and colors of Arcadia whip by from the window, and thinks about prophecies and protective energies and what Dean Prescott is trying to tell her. She wishes he'd take up skywriting instead of scribbling graffiti, it might make his point more obvious. 

She's slipping her earbuds in when her mom turns around in the passenger seat. She's doing her make-up in the car mirror, and her mouth is smiling around her sophisticated lipstick. "Do you know when you'll be called to the stand?"

Max shrugs. "Whenever the lawyers want me to, I guess."

"Don't be nervous. Just answer all of the questions as clearly as you can." 

"I'll do my best."

Her mom's smile turns sad then, but not all the way through. There is a warm affection softening the corners. "Chloe would be so proud of you, you know."

Max says, "Thanks", in a small, pitiful voice, and wishes that time would both speed up and just freeze altogether. 

Months of knowing that this day would come, and she still doesn't feel ready. She lifts her tired gaze to the steely morning sky and wonders if Chloe can see her. The idea of it, of having a watchful, caring gaze following you around, it makes Max feel just a little bit better. And the ability to look down on the world and observe, that definitely would appeal to Chloe. To her, everything must look perfect. Like a snowglobe. 

Max's eyes linger with panic on every highway sign that brings them closer and closer to Portland. She counts down the remaining miles like a clock ticking down, a knot in her chest. There's so much to think about and not enough room in her head to store it all. What the hell is she going to say up there, under  _oath?_   How is Joyce going to react? How are her own parents going to react? Is Sean going to be here today? Has Nathan forgiven her?

She turns up the volume, shutting her eyes tight. She has to block out the noise in her head, at least until they get there. 

Portland is blue and leafy and beautiful, even in the icy rain. The heavens opened just before they arrived, but somehow Max thinks the city looks even better, smudged and delicate like a watercolor painting. The streets are traffic clogged, and silently she is relieved, because a slower crawl towards their destination means more time to try and regulate her breathing, to slow her heart before it bursts from her chest. 

But all too soon, her dad is applying the brakes and slowing, and her mom is gathering her bag and putting her make-up away. They're here. It's time.  _Chloe, please God tell me I'll be okay._

The courthouse is enormous, slate-gray and imposing, like an old museum. But that's not what grabs her attention as her dad parks. No, what seizes her is actually the very large and very terrifying crowd of journalists, photographers and whoever else, all clustered together on the steps and thrumming with a bouncy anticipation she can feel from hear. Max gulps.

"God," her mom whispers, "I underestimated how much attention a Prescott trial would get." 

"They'll know who I am," Max blurts, tripping over her breath. "M-My face was plastered everywhere, after -- after--"

Her dad nods at her confidently through the rear-view. "You don't have to say a word to them," he tells her. "Keep your head down. Let's just get inside." 

Her limbs are stiff when she climbs out of the car, pulling her dress down in some pathetic effort to make herself invisible. The rain hits her skin sharply and she shivers, jumping a little when her mother's warm hand curves around her wrist. 

"It's okay," she says in her ear. 

They cross the street, their steps so loud in Max's ears. Three, four, five steps, but the crowd on the steps haven't noticed. Max spots notepads and tape recorders being shielded under coats and in pockets, shivers again at the sight of the bulky cameras on some people's shoulders. Six, seven, eight, they still haven't seen her, nine, ten, eleven, they're almost at the steps, they _have_  to -- twelve, thirteen-- 

"Oh! Miss Caulfield? Miss Caulfield!"

Her mom's hand tightens on her wrist and Max's pace quickens. Her dad strides ahead, blocking her, and she stares at the line of his shoulders as she struggles to not trip over her own feet in an attempt to keep up. 

There are pops of dizzying flashes and voices too close to her, and she knows someone is trying to shove a microphone at her face but she keeps her head low and allows her hair to fall across her eyes. 

"Miss Caulfield! One second, please!"

Up the steps, and thank God she doesn't slip. She gasps in a wet breath and suddenly feels like she'll never get there, never get away. The air is thick and suffocating, people are shouting at her, her own brain is yelling at her --

She doesn't realise they've made it inside until her mother forcibly stops her, hands on her shoulders. "Phew," she says, "that was intense."

"Are you okay, kiddo?" her dad asks.

"F-Fine. Sorry. I'm fine." They're standing in a grand yellow-and-gold hued lobby, with glimmering elevators and a long, wide corridor, flanked on all sides by tall glass doors. It's busy, but by no means as stressful as the steps. People buzz around with coffees and clicking shoes, looking like they're all late for an appointment they'll never get to. Max searches for a familiar face, but can't find one. She sucks in a deep breath, wipes her clammy hands on her dress. 

"Should we go in?" her mom says uncertainly, looking around. "There's still some time, but..."

"Max!"

Max spins. It's Fitz, the Price lawyer, hurrying towards her with his beaten-up briefcase bundled under one arm and a pile of papers in the other. As usual, he looks harassed. He's flushed when he reaches her, but she's starting to think that's how he always looks. 

"Max," he says, pumping her hand in a quick shake, "good morning. How are you?" He doesn't wait for an answer. "Are you ready?"

She winces, but he must miss it. "As I'll ever be."

"You'll be fine, of course. It's going to be very straight-forward, at least from me." He gulps audibly. "S-Silva might be more... aggressive."

"It's alright," she tries to paste a smile on her face. "I'll... just do my best." 

When exactly would be the good time to tell him that she and the opposition have secretly concocted a plan to turn the trial around on Sean Prescott? Is there a good time? Probably not. 

After Fitz has rushed off in a blur of sweat and paperwork, Max's dad arches an eyebrow. "That's an interesting fella."

"That was Joyce and David's lawyer," Max explains. 

"Really?" Max can't read her mother's facial expression. "Well... I'm sure he's very good."

"He's never won a case against the Prescott's lawyer. Ever." 

"...Oh."

"Well, this time is going to be different," her dad states. "Those Prescotts are finally going to get what's been coming to them."

Her mom pauses for a moment. Her eyes fall on the doors to the courtroom, and Max watches her swallow.

"We should get a seat," she says reluctantly. "Max..."

"I'll be fine," Max says quickly. "You guys go."

"Take deep breaths before you go in." Her mom pulls her into a tight hug, and the smell of her perfume, so familiar, makes Max's eyes water for some reason. "You'll do great." 

Her dad hugs her too, and then the two of them are leaving, glancing back at her with this concerned stain in their eyes. Max pulls a smile, and waves at them until they disappear completely, heading into the courtroom. And then, she starts to swell with the strangest hollow feeling, like when your parents drop you off on your first day of kindergarten. Suddenly your world is bigger and scarier and you're more alone than you used to be.

She swallows, breathing in the smell of the lobby, trying to force herself "to be present", as Ms. Owens says. The scent is coffee grounds and leather shoes and floor polish. 

This is happening, she thinks, watching the last couple stragglers file into the courtroom. Joyce and David are probably already in there, about to take on the might of the Prescott family without even a sliver of fear or reluctance. Max is dreading the moment she has to sit on the witness stand for lots of reasons, but defending Nathan in front of them, defending what he did to pave the way for the bigger picture, the better result... she feels dirty, horrific, trying to picture it. 

But this is for Chloe. It's for Kate. It's for the girls in the binders and whoever else has been tainted and devastated by Sean Prescott, Mark Jefferson and the ring. Max tries to position that thought permanently at the forefront of her mind, pin it down like a buoy at sea and keep it there. 

Max leans against the cool wall nearest her. What had Ms. Owens said about breathing? Inhale for five seconds or hold her breath for five seconds? Her skin is hot and sticky, her heart fluttering a little too hard. 

Something buzzes in her ear, and at first she thinks its just her own blood. But the buzzing grows louder, and then delicate fingers are curving around her wrist--

"Max?" Kate is eyeing her worriedly, her grip on her wrist tightening a fraction. "Are you alright? You look pale."

Max straightens -- too quickly. Her vision swims and her shoulder slides clumsily against the wall. She stumbles but Kate is there, an arm curving around her back and holding her steady.

"Sorry," Max exhales, "I-I think I'm wigging out."

"Here, sit down," Kate says calmly. She manouevres them both until they're on the floor, Max's weight supported by the wall. Her vision clears, and she quickly sucks in a deep breath or two. Kate brushes her hair out of her eyes. "Do you need me to get someone?"

"No." Max shakes her head, swallowing. "I'm -- I'm better now. Thanks. It's just...  _being_  here, I guess. This is actually happening."

"I know. I barely slept last night."

"Are you nervous?" Max asks quietly. 

"To testify?" Kate smiles tightly. "Oh, you know. Just terrified." 

Max laces their fingers, squeezing. "You're going to be great. Remember, Carmin is on our side."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Kate murmurs. "He -- Mr. Prescott is going to be in there,  _watching_  me--"

"If it's too hard--"

"No." Kate is firm. "I'm going in. That's not even up for debate. But I can still feel uncomfortable about it."

"Of course you can."

"And, you know--" Kate hesitates, looking twisted up. "--I can still feel...  _angry_  at Nathan. And hurt. I know you said he's different now, that he was sick. But he still  _needs_  to hear how he affected me. I can't just use who he is now to erase who he was."

Max meets her gaze, hard. "I never wanted you to go easy on him." She squeezes again. "Tell them everything."

Kate smiles, eyes soft. She peers over Max's shoulder at the courtroom door. "I wish we could go in."

"Me too. "

"Do we get to stay? After we've testified?"

"I think so. If we want to." 

"I want to," Kate says firmly. She sighs a little shakily. "Stay with me?"

"Always, Kate."

They're sitting there when the others arrive. Warren, strangely unrecognizable and grown-up looking in a suit a size or two big, and Max finds a surprising strength in his grin. She knows from experience that Warren is the kind of person to still be smiling at the end of the world, and it's comforting. The gravity of this whole situation isn't as frightening as before. Trevor and Justin keep tugging at their ties, staring at the doors of the court in the same way that Max is. She knows they want to talk to Joyce, to let her know that they knew her daughter, and that she was incredible, wonderful, one of a fucking kind. And is, and always will be. The past tense doesn't suit Chloe, Max has learned. She's too much of force for that. 

Dana is here too, with Juliet, and they hug Max and Kate with glassy eyes and warm, constricting grips. Whenever Max looks at them, all she can think about is the dorm and how she never thought on move-in day last year that she would go through hell with these girls, and survive. A quiet moment of support passes between them all, carried in smiles that say more than words could, and Max is grateful. Victoria nods at her tightly, lips pressed together, and doesn't say a word. But she doesn't have to, and everyone is glad to have her there. Zachary, who buys them two extra-large teas, Brooke, Alyssa, Stella, bright and optimistic in a sea of faces damp with rain and dreariness. 

When they disappear into the courtroom, Max is rocked with that feeling again. The weightlessness, with the threat of a sudden drop. 

She and Kate move to sit on a bench instead of the floor, nursing their teas and stiffening their shoulders in unison each time the doors open. 

Out of nowhere, Max is overwhelmed with a bizarre sensation. Her spine prickles with a cold shiver, and at first she blames it on the draft wafting from one of the high windows. Until Kate elbows her hard in the ribs, and she turns and looks at the thunderstorm marching its way confidently down the corridor. 

Sean Prescott walks without a care in the world. He drips with arrogance in an immaculately tailored suit, his smirk leaning dangerously into mocking territory. It's... infuriating. Max had thought seeing him today would spark a nervousness, a fear that clawed its way beneath her skin and rendered her meek and immobile. But instead, she's startled by a furious, swelling anger, an itch in her fingers and a disgusted curl to her lip.

She hears Kate suck in a breath and hold it as he comes closer.  _Whistling._

He doesn't acknowledge them. He doesn't even look at them, as oblivious to them as though they were part of the furniture. He slips inside the courtroom and Max glares darkly after him, wanting him to feel every molecule of her rage pressing hot and furious against the back of his head.

He walks with the air he's worn like a jacket for the past few years, the air of someone who knows something nobody else does, and is hopelessly smug about it.

But Max knows. And it's only a matter of time until everybody else does, too.  

Scarlett follows, the click-clack of her heels like bullets against the rubber floor. She is regal and sharp, a statuette of ice. And by the hand, she is pulling after her a young boy, who is anything but sharp or icy. Max blinks at Harry with a mixture of horror and confusion -- they brought Harry? He seems to be wincing at the severity of his mother's grip, dressed in a suit nearly identical to Sean's, his hair neatly combed to one side.

 _He_  notices her. Of course he does. She watches his mouth stretch into a half-surprised, wholly genuine smile as he passes, and he seems to be opening his mouth to say something to her before Scarlett yanks him into the courtroom. The doors bang shut, but Max can hear the chorus of whispers on the other side, buzzing through the walls at this unexpected family arrival. Harry's presence here is  _cruel_. It's going to kill Nathan. They did it on purpose. 

Kate nudges her again, less urgently this time. "That girl over there is waving at you." 

Max lifts her eyes. Then widens them.

"No  _way_ ," she breathes. "Kate, I'll be back in a sec." 

She stumbles to her feet, her mouth parted in astonishment, hurrying over to the other side of the hall. 

Kristine's grin is amused, but Max knows her well enough by now to find the anxiety she hides so well lingering at the corners. 

She's dressed in a royal blue dress with a smart collar, her honey-hued hair plaited at the side. The words fall from Max's mouth in a rushed shock.

"What are you--"

"Doing here?" Kristine raises an eyebrow. "Guess I'm not as predictable as you thought."

"But -- Brazil -- I thought you were--"

"I mean, the flight definitely happened, I just wasn't on it."

Max presses her lips together. "Kristine, I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Why are you sorry?"

"For ragging on you so hard last week. I was just - exasperated, I don't know. I shouldn't have went off like I did."

"But you were right." Kristine says matter-of-factly. "Everything you said about me was right." She sighs then, and all of a sudden the mask of breezy confidence slips. She looks young and ashamed. "I am a coward. I am selfish."

"You aren't. I was just mad."

"Pissed or chill, you were right. All I've ever done is run. From my family, from this town, from... anything that ever got too hard or too overwhelming. I've never stopped trying to get away because... because I don't know what the hell to  _do_  when all of that shit catches up to me."

"But you're here now. You stayed."

"Because you called me out," Kristine says, her tone uncharacteristically serious. "You made me realise that, well, all of that running?" She smiles sadly. "I'm more tired than I thought I was. It's freaking exhausting, Max." 

"And how does it feel to stop?"

"Scary as hell. Part of me wishes I'd got on the plane."

"But you're here. You have no idea how awesome that is."

Kristine smiles warmly, and then she's pulling Max in, hugging her tight. "Thank you, Max." 

"It'll mean a lot to Nathan, that you're here."

"It's a step towards... something, at least." She looks down. "I want to show him that I do actually give a shit. He thinks I gave up on him. But after Dean died..." she breaks off, and when she raises her eyes, they're glassy, brimming with old memories. "I've still not dealt with it. I don't know how to, you know? Pushing Nathan away seemed easier, than watching him fall down the same fucking hole." 

"Are you going to leave again, when it gets tough in there?"

"No," Kristine says, and Max believes her immediately. "I'm not losing another brother. I want him to know that I... crap, that I..."

Max smiles at her. "You should go inside."

"Yeah." Kristine breathes out, a loud  _phew._ "God, I'll... see you in there. Good luck."

"Thanks." 

Max sits beside Kate, her shoes tapping an agitated rhythm on the floor. 

"Was that...?"

"His sister. Older." 

"Oh." Kate blinks. "She seems... nice."

"She is." 

There a lot of witnesses beginning to gather. Max looks around with bemusement, wondering how they could possibly get through all of these people today, and how many more witnesses there are to come tomorrow, the day after. Most of the faces she doesn't know at all, but some she does. Officer Berry is here, frowning and clutching a cup of coffee. Principal Wells, in his best suit. He nods and smiles at Max and Kate, and seems for a second like he wants to approach them. Max is kind of glad that he doesn't. 

When Nell strolls over to them, it honestly takes Max a second to recognize her. She's out of her wrinkled uniform, dressed instead in a pale blue blouse, black skirt and tights, her hair uncharacteristically tidy, left down for once and falling in soft waves. 

"I've done this a hundred times, for hundreds of patients," Nell says as way of an opening, once she reaches them. She shakes her head, eyes lined with worry. "But this, today? I don't know why it feels different. Harder." 

"It's... a tough case," Max says awkwardly. But she smiles, glad to see her. "You look so lovely, Nell."

"What? This old thing?" Nell tugs at the hem of her skirt. "Found it in a ball at the back of my closet." Her eyes fall on Kate, and Max watches the gentle recognition rise to the surface. "Kate Marsh, right?"

Kate looks up with a startled expression, as if she hadn't expected to be spoken to. "Um, yes. Hi."

"Nice to meet ya." Nell pats her on the shoulder. "You're going to be fine in there. Honestly, I've done it plenty." 

Kate smiles at her appreciatively. "Thank you."

Nell nods at Max, jerking her thumb in the direction of the exits. "Could you believe what you saw out there? Like something out of a movie." 

"Oh, you mean the news people?" Max makes a face. "Yeah, it was pretty intense."

"Oh, no, I meant the crows."

Max inhales sharply. "The crows?"

Nell hums. "Everybody's outside, taking pictures. It's crazy. There's gotta be... jesus,  _hundreds_. Just hanging out on the roof of the court house." 

A sudden, distant yet nonetheless alarming bang from the nearby room causes Max to jump, her heart skipping a beat. She and Kate look at each other.

"That was the gavel," Kate whispers. 

The trial, it's begun. 

Max laces her fingers together, and waits.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Trying to listen to the goings-on inside the court is immensely difficult, like Max has her ear pressed up against a bee hive. It's all warbling, distant muttering, gaval thuds, the squeak of shoes, a cough, a sneeze. After twenty minutes, Max is able to separate Carmin's voice, authoritative and confident, from Fitz's, a much more uncertain murmuring. 

She's sweating, cheeks burning. Frustration, a sense of being left out, of being unprepared, repeatedly kicks at the walls of her chest. 

Time is unbearably slow, but seems to speed up relentlessly when she pictures herself up on the stand. A few agonizing minutes go by, and Max can't help but start pacing, swallowing quickly in an attempt to stop herself from shouting out loud. What the hell is taking so long? 

Her phone vibrates aggressively, a text message blinking for attention. 

Kate passes it to her, and Max exhales sharply, her silent prayers answered. 

 

 _silva is HARDCORE,_ Warren has texted.  _i swear fitz is about to cry_

 

Max collapses back on the bench, fingers moving rapidly over the buttons.  _What's going on??  Has Carmin said anything to the jury about Sean or the ring yet? Why haven't they talked any witnesses? How's Nathan?_

 

Warren's response isn't immediate. Max's fingers itch as she waits, her gaze pinned to the floor. 

Her phone buzzes again. 

 

_carmin is still doing her opening statement - nothing about the ring yet. i think fitz is going to call you up when carmin finishes. Nathan = looks like shit, i think he keeps looking around for you_

 

Max squirms in her seat. She's  _first_. Suddenly her breath is too big for her body, expanding like a hot air balloon and squeezing her throat. 

When the door to the court suddenly opens, seconds or minutes later, she can't be sure, her heart plummets sickly into her stomach. It's too soon. 

But she's being called. There is silence in the court. They're waiting for her. 

Kate squeezes her hand tightly, her eyes wet. Max stands too fast and her head spins, like it used to when Chloe pushed her too hard on the merry-go-round. Her hand flattens on the wall for support, but her legs are moving. She's going. 

A voice in her head, making sure she doesn't stop.  _I'm never leaving you._

She's passing through the doorway. Her breath is shallow, her vision a little swimmy. The first thing she sees are rows and rows of seats and the judge's bench, rising up like a mountain she has to climb, a summit she has to reach.  _That's okay. We will. Forever._

Is the air thinner in here? She inhales shakily, testing it. It must be, it tastes thinner. She really is hiking a mountain. 

Dusty light streams in through the wide windows, higher than the rest of the room. The sunlight is bizarre, yellowed and surreal, and she can see the particles of dust waltzing slowly with one another, lilting gently to the ground. Ground. It's shiny, freshly polished.  _You made me smile and laugh, like I haven't done in years._

Her footsteps echo loudly. People are whispering in the rows. She feels the hot weight of every single stare, she hears her name drifting across their mind's eye. 

The court rooms on TV are exactly like this one. Immaculate, tidy, nothing out of place. It's easy for her to trick herself into believing that this is just TV, and all of these people are just actors, performing their assigned roles. This isn't real. This is pretend. Everything is going to be fine.  _All those moments between us were real, and they'll always be ours._

But on TV, they can't capture the smell. It coils in Max's nostrils like smoke. The scent is floor wax and new clothes and too much coffee. On TV, they can't capture how it feels. Like Max has just stepped into an otherworld, with walls that are trying to close in on her. It feels like stepping into an impressively ornate shoebox. It feels gaudy, ridiculous, and terrifying.  _I know, Max. But we have to. We have to save everybody, okay?_

She turns her head and her heart lifts at the sight of her friends. Warren clutches his phone, eyes big and round, leaning towards her like he is repressing the urge to sprint to her side and help her up this mountain. Victoria holds her gaze, and there is something so courageous in it that it knocks Max's breath back out of her body. Resolve burrows into her brain, into her stomach, pushing past the walls of guilt and shame and worry.  _And you'll make those fuckers pay for what they did to Rachel._

David and Joyce have turned in their seats. Joyce's eyes are puffy and red, David's fists are clenched knuckle-white in his lap. But he smiles at her softly, bravely, and Max tries to return it, but in a few minutes she'll be turning her back on him and she doesn't want to torture him any more than she has to.  _You're my hero, Max._

The judge is an tall, sharp-featured woman with angular eyes, and she isn't looking at Max, but instead writing something down. Fitz is standing at his table, waiting to question her, tugging anxiously on his tie. The jury look like normal people, but somehow in those seats, under this light, in this stifling room, they are the scariest people on earth. 

Max is about to pass through the space between the two tables. She tilts her head to the right, swallowing hard. Carmin sits with her legs crossed, drumming crimson nails almost impatiently on the surface in front of her, hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She regards Max with a neutral expression, but Max sees the determination brimming where she doesn't let Sean Prescott see. She's not going to let her down. 

And next to her, Nathan. 

Max suffers a soft blow to her stomach, one which knots and tightens and worsens. The feeling presses on her from all sides, caging her in. 

He's not looking at her.  _Purposefully_  not looking at her. His fingers are twisted on his lap, shaking, nails bitten. His hair is neatly combed, but the usual errand curl has still slipped free. He is ashen and blotchy around his cheeks, all at once, his jaw held tight. He's wearing a suit, dark navy with a white shirt, the powder blue tie pushed up high. Max wills him to look at her, because one glance from him would give her strength. It would be another firm push at her back, edging her forward. 

Nathan swallows, and looks away. 

A man is standing by the witness stand, the box-type area practically sutured to the judge's bench. Max remembers that he's called the courtroom clerk. He's holding the Bible, and he nods at her when she gets close. 

The clerk's voice is well-practiced, booming. "Please raise your right hand. Do you promise that the testimony you shall give in this case before the court shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

Her voice cracks, but the words are clear. "I do." 

"Please state your full name for the court."

"Max -- Maxine Caulfield." 

"You may be seated."

She sits, and then there it is, the court, staring back at her. The ailse she had to walk up seemed so much longer when she'd been at the bottom. She spots her parents, and can almost feel how hard her dad is holding her mom's hand. 

Her heart is jack-hammering. Fitz is walking towards her, still tugging on his tie. Max looks at the jury, all turned towards her with interest. How many read about her in the newspapers? How many are already on her side? 

Her eyes are pulled, irresistibly it seems, back to Nathan. He raises his head and looks at her for the first time. 

He presses his lips together. Nods, ever so slightly, as if it was only intended for her to see. He seems resigned still, resigned to what he thinks she's about to do -- damn him to rot. 

Max looks at him helplessly, but the moment is over, snatched from her in seconds. Nathan turns his head, and stares at the ground. 

 _I'll always love you._  

Fitz stands, clearing his throat loudly as he approaches. Max's gaze flicks to Sean Prescott, arms folded, eyebrow raised in her direction. The same resolve from before, it returns, a blazing electrical storm. 

"M-Miss Caulfield," Fitz says, "you are a student at Blackwell Academy, correct?" 

She nods, a little jerkily. "Yes."

"Were you at Blackwell Academy on October 7th of last year?"

"I -- yes." Max swallows, wincing when the microphone picks up the anxious crackle of her breath. 

"Please tell the court what you were doing on the morning of October 7th." 

"I'd just had a class." She almost says Jefferson's name, but decides quickly against it. "I went to the girls bathroom in the main hallway, to wash my face. I-I hadn't been feeling well that day." She tries to make Nathan look at her, but his gaze rests frozen on the table. "Then Nathan came in." 

She doesn't miss the small whispers and murmurs that reverberate from the back of the court. Nathan seems to have steeled himself against them, wrapped himself in a well-worn armor. 

"Did he notice you or say anything to you, Miss Caulfield?"

"No. He... He didn't actually see me. A butterfly had flown in, through the window and gone behind the stalls. I was there when he came in, trying to take a photo of the butterfly."

There are titters and chuckles from the public seating now, and the judge frowns in that direction, silencing them immediately. 

"What happened next, Miss Caulfield?"

"Chloe -- Chloe Price came in, almost right after. She," Max glances quickly at Joyce and David. "She didn't know I was there, either." 

"Why did Miss Price and Mr. Prescott meet in the bathroom?" 

"Chloe... wanted money from him."

The first sting. Joyce's eyebrows fall together, saddened and confused, and Max has to tear her gaze away before she becomes upset. 

Fitz blinks quickly, and sends Max a look that suggests he hadn't expected this answer. "I-I see. What happened next?"

"They started arguing--"

"Was Mr. Prescott very angry?"

Carmin's hand shoots up, making Max startle. "Leading the witness," she states, in an almost bored tone of voice.

The judge nods in acknowledgment. "Sustained. Rephrase, Mr. Fitzgerald."

Fitz colors. "How would you describe Mr. Prescott's behavior at that time, Miss Caulfield?"

"W-Well, when he first came into the bathroom, he seemed..." Nathan's head raises, ever so slightly. "...Agitated. He was talking to himself, a-and pacing around. When they started arguing, he did get more upset. But Chloe was, too, she--"

Fitz interrupts her hastily. "What happened once this argument had escalated?" 

And Max can't help but notice what a ridiculous question that is.  _Look around_ , she feels like snapping.  _You know exactly what happened_. 

"Miss Caulfield?"

She hasn't answered him yet. She trembles under the dozens and dozens of eyes fixed on her, from all directions. Analyzing, scrutinizing. She feels like dinner being picked apart on a plate. 

Nathan lifts his head and looks at her, really looks at her. For once, he's difficult to read. 

"He shot her. Nathan shot Chloe."

The words drain her, but there it is, the truth, dumped onto the court room floor. The court is deathly silent at the admission, but Max watches as the jury turn and exchange glances, as people in the public row shake their heads and nudge one another and narrow their eyes in Nathan's direction. He is emotionless, his eyes slipping from her face like dripping water, falling on the floor again. 

Max looks at Sean, who seems to have been waiting for her to do just that. He  _grins_. A smug, mocking smirk meant just for her, as if to say,  _I bet you think you did a good job._  

Fitz seems satisfied. "No further questions, your Honor." 

Carmin smooths her hands down her skirt as she stands, elegantly coming around from behind the table. She laces her fingers together behind her back, pushes her shoulders back, and fixes Max with a steady, stony stare that would probably have her shrinking back if she didn't know Carmin. 

"Miss Caulfield," she says coolly, "describe what happened in the moments immediately after the shooting."

"Chloe collapsed," Max replies, a sting of guilt spearing her at Joyce's flinch. "Nathan dropped his gun--"

"Tell me about Nathan specifically. What was his emotional reaction?"

Max swallows, her throat clicking wetly. "He was... he was horrified."

"Hardly the typical reaction of the cold-blooded killer, the profile Mr. Fitzgerald is attempting to give my client," Carmin says smoothly, turning directly to face the jury. They look startled by Max's words. She glances back at Max. "Go on, Miss Caulfield."

"He seemed... really shocked. He fell to his knees and, and he started crying. S-Sobbing actually. He started punching the floor, until his hands started bleeding. But he didn't seem to notice. I could tell he was -- he was devastated. He was screaming, and hyperventilating. That's when the school security came in--"

Carmin listens, prowling in a slow circle. "Miss Caulfield, you said you were out of view from both Nathan and Chloe. You said you were concealed behind the restroom stalls. May I ask then, did you in fact physically see Nathan shoot her?"

Max frowns. Where is Carmin going with this? She hesitates, shifting in her seat, but Carmin's answering stare is steel-steady and confident. At least she seems to know what she's doing.

Fitz has gone tense in his seat, and not-so-subtly appears to be trying to get Max's attention. Joyce and David have mirroring expressions, their eyebrows low, their mouths slightly open. They think Carmin is ambushing Max, or about to. Little do they know Max is supposed to let that happen.

"Yes, I-I did. I was looking around the corner of the stall when she was shot." 

Carmin turns coolly to address the jury. "The fatal bullet wound was located in a highly unusual position, quite high up on Miss Price's stomach. The entry of the bullet was point blank, but crucially, it entered a strange, sideways angle. Miss Caulfield," she turns at the hips, "Describe then, if you did see the actual shooting, the way in which Nathan was aiming the gun."

Max's mouth falls open but no words come out. She thinks she's starting to see where the lawyer is going with this, the pieces begin arranging like alphabet soup in front of her. This is it, then. This is the moment Carmin prepared her for. 

At Max's silence, Carmin clasps her hands behind her back. "Was he pointing the gun straight, directly at Chloe?"

"No," Max says.

And it feels like leaping off a jagged cliff.

Fitz's eyes widen so suddenly and so violently that there is a high chance they are about to plop right out of his head and roll off the table. As his face reddens, Max tears her gaze to Joyce. She is looking down, but her lips are pressed into a tight, stern line.

"Elaborate, Miss Caulfield."

"T-The gun was sort of sideways," Max says, and although it's the truth, the words burn her tongue. "He was holding it in his right hand, but he wasn't pointing it. He was just... holding it there." 

"The shot was not deliberate, then," Carmin muses, looking back to the jury. Behind her, Fitz's hands are rapidly curling into his papers and files, Max can hear them crackling from here and swallows. 

Max's skin is tingling, but in a sickly, uncomfortable way. "N-No. I don't think so." 

"In your opinion, Miss Caulfield, what do you personally think happened?"

Nathan lifts his head, blinking faster than normal. 

Her throat is sealing up, but somehow, she forces the words out, loud and clear in the courtroom.

"It was an accident. It was just a horrible accident."

Fitz clambers to his feet, sweat breaking out in beads on his forehead. "Your Honor," he wheezes, "Miss Silva has offered no evidence that this heinous crime was an accident, other than the fact the entry wound was lopsided. Her questions to this witness are irrelevant." 

The judge nods. She looks as startled as everyone else. "Miss Silva, do you have any more supporting evidence for this claim?"

Max feels the heavy weight of dozens of eyes on her, yet again, pressing hard into her burning skin. 

Sean Prescott is smirking. Max's hands ball into fists. He thinks she's messed up, melted pitifully under Carmin's cross-examination. But this is only temporary. This is the springboard Carmin will use to drag him to hell. She needs to make him think she's on his side, to lure him to the witness stand, when he feels safe and content with what appears on the surface to be a Prescott-leaning court win. 

Max doesn't miss Carmin's nod, nor does she miss Joyce's hands, splaying in shock across her open mouth. Her eyes are wet and glistening. Max clutches at her stomach, feeling a physical blow. 

She reminds herself forcefully, her brain literally shouting it at her, that everything will be okay. Chloe wanted her to destroy Sean Prescott, Mark Jefferson and the ring, and this is the first step to doing it.

She just wishes it didn't have to be so excruciatingly painful. 

Max gets distracted by the court, by those in the public rows turning to whisper and stare at each other in astonishment, at Fitz leaning far forward on his desk, biting his nails to the knuckle.

Carmin's voice is collected, and somewhat unsurprised, by Fitz's accusation. She nods at the judge and turns to the jury. "Are those in the jury aware of the effects of the drug Diazepam? Particularly after unmonitored, long-term use?"

The jury members glance at each other, with most shaking their head. 

"The status of my client's mental health at the time of the shooting will be explored in much greater detail later on, however, for now it is imperative to understand that Nathan was under the influence of Diazepam, as well as many other medications, while at Blackwell Academy. I will later argue that he should  _not_  have been on the majority of these medications, and certainly was not appropriately monitored by those around him," she pauses briefly, letting the weight of this hang, and Max notices the ghost of a frown on Sean Prescott's face. 

"For now, though," Carmin goes on, "I will tell you about Diazepam. Substantial use, and in my client's case, morbid dependency, on this drug cause a myriad of significant consequences. One of the most disruptive side-effects for my client was a severe drop in his muscle control and his ability to control his co-ordination. Furthermore, he also suffered from tremors." She nods at the jury. "Particularly in his right hand, the hand, as Miss Caulfield has just informed us, was holding the gun." 

Joyce is shaking her head wildly. David clutches the edge of his seat, white-knuckled. 

"My client suffered a violent tremor, as well as a spasm in his muscle control which caused his hand to flex and then tighten fiercely around the trigger. You understand this lines up with the unusual entry of the bullet. My client was therefore holding the gun, slightly elevated and to the side, and it went off. It also is telling that, as Miss Caulfield has said, my client was shocked, devastated and horrified enough by this  _accident_ , that he proceeded to suffer a violent nervous breakdown. We are all aware that my client had to be subsequently committed to St. Dymphna's Psychiatric Hospital. Why would Nathan Prescott have suffered such a chronic mental collapse if he had deliberately pulled the trigger?"

Fitz is wiping his forehead with a handkerchief roughly, holding onto the table as though he is trying to restrain himself from leaping up again. 

"Chloe Price's death was a tragic accident," Carmin finishes, "it was not a cold-blooded murder, by a reckless and unstable sociopath, as Mr. Fitzgerald is attempting to show."

The judge waves at Carmin, getting her attention. "Wrap it up, Miss Silva."

Carmin turns back to Max and nods once. "No further questions, your Honor."

And that's it, it's over. 

Nathan is breathing hard when Carmin sits back down beside him. She murmurs something in his ear, and he nods shakily, eyes lifting to Max. He stares at her, wordlessly and ashen. 

Joyce is staring at her too, but not the same way. She is looking at her as though Max has been this rooted thing, for her whole life, and now she's transformed into something entirely. Joyce is looking at her like she's trying to figure out when along the way that happened.

Max's eyes are pricking. She can't cry here. She gets to her feet, legs wobbling like gelatin, sweat pooled under her knees and plastering the hem of her dress to her legs. The baliff tells her to go and sit down, and she sees it, the seat left for her next to her parents. 

She's moving back down the aisle, heavy with adrenaline, but it's like watching herself from a distance. Her mother is pale, but she's holding out her hand for Max to take it and sit down. Max knows she will rub her shoulder and say something like,  _God, that lawyer goaded you into saying all of that_ or  _Don't worry, Maxine, you did your best._ And the words will feel like a knife when they come. And Max doesn't want to hear them.

She brushes past her mother's extended fingers, her pace quickening. She feels her parents look after her, startled, but her feet won't stop moving and the door is getting closer. Her heart is racing, her stomach is pooling with something ice-cold and nauseous.

"Miss Silva, your next witness," she hears the judge say, her voice buried beneath the ringing in Max's ears. 

"Doctor Thomas Jacoby," Carmin states, "Nathan Prescott's first -- and primary -- psychiatrist." 

 A bespectacled man with tidy, slicked-back hair passes her in the aisle. His cologne is rich and overpowering, twisting sickly in her stomach. By the time she reaches the door, she is certain she really is going to vomit.

She breaks into a frantic run once she's out of the courtroom, bile rising in her throat. Kate calls after her, but she can't turn back, can't speak. 

She doesn't know where the bathrooms are, so she sprints outside and doubles over the second she sees a cluster of thick bushes. The journalists are gone, thank God, and she takes advantage by proceeding to vomit up what little she had to eat. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, shivering despite the dizzy heat rushing through her, and lets loose a pathetic groan. 

"Max!" Kate shouts. 

"No," Max gets out, her throat hoarse and acidic. "Don't come over here. I... eugh, I threw up."

"I don't care," Kate marches up to her and takes her by the arms. She brushes Max's hair from her eyes, smooths her cool fingers over the sticky heat of her forehead. "What happened in there?"

There is a barrage of more footsteps, and they both turn in time to see Warren and Victoria burst out of the spinning revolving door. 

"Are you alright?" Warren asks breathlessly. 

Victoria takes a hasty step backwards away from the pool of puke. "Oh,  _gross_ \--"

"Max," Kate's hands slip down to her wrists and squeeze. "What happened?"

"I made it sound like what happened to Chloe was -- was some kind of freak mistake!" Max whispers brokenly. "I-I knew it was going to be rough up there, but that was  _awful_. I seriously thought I'd be able to do this, but..." she breaks off helplessly, shaking her head, "Fuck, I hate this."

"It's only temporary," Kate reminds her. "We always knew to get to Sean Prescott, we'd have to use stepping stones."

"But the hurt I'm causing, that's not temporary," Max retorts. "You should've seen the way Joyce looked at me in there. She was more than disappointed, she was... she was crushed." 

"Max--" Warren tries.

"I'm so fucking sick and tired of this," Max says, pushing her hair roughly out of her eyes. 

"Of what?" Kate asks softly.

"Of being torn. I'm always  _torn_. If I want to help somebody, I have to hurt someone else." 

"Max," Warren murmurs. 

"I wish there was a way to just fix everything," Max adds weakly. "I wish I didn't always have to choose." 

"Get over yourself," Victoria snaps.

Max falls silent and looks at her, startled, Kate and Warren doing the same. Victoria's arms are crossed, but instead of anger, her eyes are blazing with a resolve Max isn't used to seeing on her. 

"This isn't about you," she says coldly. "We're all aware of how hard this whole thing is, how enormously-fucking-unfair it is that we even have to be here. You don't have to remind us. What you  _need_  to do is to stop worrying about what you look like, or what impression you're giving off to a room of total strangers, and stick to the fucking plan." 

"Victoria, I..."

"Don't you remember what you told me?" Victoria interrupts. "Shit happens, and when it does, you can't be scared or else you lose. The longer you spend crying over having to disappoint someone for the sake of the bigger picture, that's time wasted. No offense, but they'll get over your witness statement. Because you're going to expose the seediest, most well-kept secret in Arcadia history, and you're going to do it on Chloe's behalf." 

Max wipes at her eyes. For some reason she wants to smile now. Victoria's outburst, it's something she never thought she'd ever see, let alone be on the receiving end of. Insult-filled outbursts, she was used to, but determined pep talks? Not so much.

"Grow some balls, Max," Victoria huffs. "You can do this. God, you're already doing it. You just have to stop trying to make everybody happy." She raises her eyebrows. "You'll give yourself gray hair, which, no offense, would so _not_  be a good look for you."

The corners of Max's mouth tease into a weak smile. "I think that was the nicest thing you've ever said to me, Victoria."

She huffs a laugh. "Don't get used to it." She reaches out and gives Max a light push on the shoulder. "It was just pissing me off to see you feeling all sorry for yourself."

"I know, and you're right." She glances at Kate, her heart sinking. "And I've been completely ignoring how hard this must be for  _you_ , Kate. I'm so sorry, I've been selfish." 

"No," Kate replies. "You're human. And I already told you, I'm not scared of Sean Prescott." She glances back fondly. "Like Victoria said, sometimes you just gotta grit your teeth and... pray you'll be able to help more people than just yourself." 

"We should head back inside," Max suggests, the nausea in her stomach thankfully subsiding. 

The other three nod, and spin on their heels in the direction of the door.

That's the last thing Max sees, before her vision flips to black. Like someone hit a switch in her brain and knocked her out cold. 

The ground disappears beneath her feet and she's falling, but weightlessly so, her limbs not meeting anything but air. A searing pain splits her head in two, and she folds in on herself, straining to open her eyes and make out anything beyond the horrible, pitch-black.

A deafeningly loud roar bursts in both of her ears and she shouts, hands coming up to cover them before her drums pop like balloons. 

Max opens her eyes. 

And stares. In horror. 

She isn't outside the courthouse anymore. She's looking down on Arcadia Bay from a stomach-churning height, detached from her tensed body. The sky looks as though it's boiling, a simmering yellowish soup. The sea is thrashing wildly, the waves bashing against each other, throwing themselves at the jagged rocks. 

And in the middle of it all, spins a storm. A tornado, as gigantic as the last, and lethal. 

No. 

_No. Impossible._

_No, No, No, No, NO!_

Horror assaults her in overwhelming waves. She tries to scream and chokes. 

The storm whips its air at her, so forcefully she fears it could slit her throat. Her mouth fills with a warm shout and--

"Max!  _Max!_ "

Her eyes fly open, for real this time. She is staring up at a rumbling, gray sky, not boiling with anything but grim rain. Her skin is damp with sweat again, tingling all over like an exposed wire. Kate, Warren, Victoria, they're leaning over her and shaking her wrists, her shoulders. She's on her back, she realizes, lying on cold cement. 

"Call a doctor," Kate urges Warren. 

"No -- no, don't," Max says hoarsely. She tries to sit up and her brain rewards her with a dizzy kick. "I'm fine, really."

There is a vile taste in her mouth, tangy like old pennies. Her fingers brush her lips, and they come away wet and crimson. 

"Your nose is bleeding," Warren says worriedly, helping her sit up. "Here, tilt your head back--"

"Just give me a second," Max whispers, cradling her aching skull. "Warren, I saw..."

The storm flashes in her memory, a thunderous spiral of destruction, before winking out in seconds. 

"A storm," she hisses.

Warren frowns. "...What?"

"I saw it. Exactly the same as last time." 

"But--" The color is draining from his confused face. "Max, that's impossible. You said you didn't have your powers, how could you have --"

"What storm?" Victoria says gruffly. "Max, what the hell are you talking about?"

"This one," she croaks at Warren. "I don't think I made this one." 

All of the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, prickling with goose bumps. 

"The Hopi," Warren says. His swallow is audible, and visceral, tightening his neck. 

Another storm. The realization, the surreal horror, is an electrocution straight to every single vein. Her insides feel doused in ice water. 

It slithers towards Arcadia, with an unknowable ETA. 

And Max has no idea how to stop this one. From destroying.

 _Everything_. 

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, a HUUUGE thank you for the amazing feedback for the last chapter, and for this fic as a whole. I can't actually put into words how grateful I am. You guys are the BEST. 
> 
> Three chapters left!

 

Max is still heavy with the aftermath of the vision when she slips back inside the courtroom, trying her best not to stagger or attract any unnecessary stares. Her perception is frighteningly blurry at the edges, with everything that isn't directly in her tunnel vision strange and haloed.Victoria's hand is curled around her elbow,Warren's splayed solidly between her shoulder blades, Kate still stuck waiting outside until her time on the stand comes.Warren wordlessly directs her into seating withhim and the others, towards the back of the public rows, and Max doesn't have the strength to argue. 

Her parents turned around the second the doors opened, and now they watch her, with mirroring faces of alarm. Max tries a weak smile, mouths a silent  _I'm fine._

Fitz is shifting from foot to foot up ahead, cross-examining Dr. Jacoby with a stuttering tone. Max lifts her foggy gaze to the back of Nathan's head, her eyes tracing a tidy path from shoulder to shoulder. He's leaning on the table, fingers twisted tightly in his hair. He is barely moving. 

_I need to talk to him._

"Are you okay, girl?" Dana whispers. "You look a little green."

"Fine, just -- overwhelmed."

Dana nods in understanding. "I bet." 

"Did we miss anything?"

"This psychiatrist just flayed Nathan's parents alive!"

Max's eyes dart to Dr. Jacoby, calm and composed-looking, expressionless through Fitz's questioning. "He did?"

"He literally accused Sean and Scarlett of some of the worst child neglect he's ever seen. Nathan showed signs of mental instability since he was a little kid, and they gave, like, zero shits. I know it's not an excuse, but, it explains why he turned out the way he did."

"Fitz must be having a hard time to trying to challenge that." 

"Uh, yeah." Dana's nose bunches up. "God, I've never seen anybody sweat that _much_."

Sean looks remarkably relaxed, despite the accusatory, disgusted tone of Dr. Jacoby. His arm is slung over the back of his seat, something infuriatingly mocking in the way his head is tilted to one side. Scarlett is rigid beside him, staring straight ahead. Max wishes she could see her face, if her blank canvas shows a single crack. 

Nathan turns his head then, peering in the same direction over his shoulder. His reddened eyes fall on Harry. 

Max sees Harry lift a small hand, a subtle wave his parents don't see. Nathan's hardened features instantly melt and soften, and he smiles weakly, slowly, at the corner of his mouth, before turning back around. 

On her other side, Warren leans close. "How's your head?"

"Trapped in a blender." She winces "I need to talk to Nathan. I have to tell him what I saw."

"What if he doesn't believe you?"

"Then I'll just have to make him. I'm done hesitating. We don't have the time anymore to fuck around."

"Not exactly like you can just waltz up there and strike up a conversation."

"I know." She sighs. "This is -- I can't _believe_ this. I've done everything right! I don't have my powers, I didn't screw up _any_ timeline, and still-- still there's a storm." 

"But it looks like this isn't your mess," Warren says quietly. "It's the ancestors." 

Max swallows. "I have to stop the tornado. Somehow. With _no_ powers this time."

Next to Warren, Victoria is regarding them both with arched eyebrows. "You still haven't explained what the hell you're talking about? Hello - _tornado?_ What the fuck?"

"I'll tell you everything," Max whispers in reply. "You know I will. But not right now, there's no time." 

"Thank you, Dr. Jacoby," Fitz is saying shakily. "No, uh, no further questions."

Dr. Jacoby slips from the stand, nodding once at Nathan as he goes. His professional mask of composure slips, just for a second, briefly revealing a soft look of pitying concern. 

Carmin gets smoothly to her feet. "We call Eleanor Kennedy to the stand."

"Who?" Warren hisses.

"Nell," Max explains.

The whispers start up again, rising from a soft hum to a fervent buzz. The judge bangs the gavel, and Max jumps. The whispers immediately cease, like cutting a wire. 

Nell is remarkably, though perhaps not uncharacteristically, relaxed as she strolls up the aisle. Max thinks about how many times she must have had to do this, and has to lay a hand over the tightening knot in her stomach. She's only testified once, she told the _truth_ , and right after she threw up. In contrast, Nell looks like she lives in this court, and everyone else is just intruding.

She swears the Oath, shoulders slouching comfortably when she sits. Nathan lifts his head, and she smiles at him with one corner of her mouth.

"Please state your name for the court," Carmin says.

Max doesn't miss her answering wince. "N... Eleanor Kennedy."

"What is your relationship to Nathan Prescott, Miss Kennedy?"

"I'm a registrar nurse at St. Dymphna's Psychiatric Hospital," Nell says, and again, Max wonders how many times she's had to sit up and there and say that. "Nathan was placed in my assigned ward."

"In your professional opinion, Miss Kennedy, how would you describe my client's mental state when he arrived at the psychiatric hospital?"

Nell pauses for a second, a tightness in her eyes. "Honestly? Catastrophic."

More whispers, silenced by the judge's sweeping scowl.

"Elaborate, please."

"From a cerebral context, he was functioning at a very low level. When he came to us, he'd had a severe nervous breakdown. He was uncommunicative, disassociated, and vegetative." 

"Were these symptoms a result of the nervous breakdown in the Blackwell Academy bathroom?"

Nell hesitates. "Yes, but..."

"But?"

"It was evident to us that Nathan's brain chemistry had been impaired for a very long time. Biochemically, his brain was in a state. It was highly unbalanced."

"Did the hospital come to any specific conclusions as to the reason why my client's cognitive function was so damaged?"

Nell nods. "Long-term misuse of psychiatric and mood medications, as well as medication dependency." 

The jury exchange glances. Max tries desperately to read them, but she can't see their faces too well from this far back.

Fitz is shuffling his notes nervously. 

Carmin holds up a thick file, teeming with paperwork. "These are my client's hospital records, which the jury have already received their own individual copies of. Yet for the sake of repetition, Miss Kennedy, please tell the court the treatment my client underwent at St. Dymphna's." 

"Well, we had basically had to start over with him, psychologically and biochemically. We weened him off his original medications, replacing them all with new courses of different ones. Nathan also attended our ward-run support groups, dual-focus therapy, and met three times weekly with his assigned psychiatrist, Doctor Perry."

"Was this course of treatment effective for my client?"

"The process was slow, but very steady. Nathan responded immediately to the new medications and, after a period, his cognitive functioning had improved, and our tests demonstrated a very positive clean-up of his brain chemistry. He also continued to grow much more emotive, engaged and co-operative."

"How would you describe Nathan today?"

Nell's mouth twitches into a smile. "He is a million miles away from the boy I met last year."

Whispers, nudges, nods and shakes of heads. 

"Miss Kennedy," Carmin goes on, her tone satisfied, "is it therefore your opinion that Nathan Prescott was under the influence of severely unsuitable and chemically damaging psychiatric medications at the time of Chloe Price's death?"

"Yes. It's very clear."

"Is it your opinion that Nathan was not monitored appropriately from a young age, when it came to his psychiatric evaluations and his prescribed medication?"

"Yes." 

"Is it also therefore your opinion that Nathan Prescott was not of sound mind when he shot Chloe Price?"

Nell pauses. "Yes."

Carmin nods. "No further questions, Your Honor." 

When Max exhales, she realizes she'd been holding her breath. Her chest constricts hotly as the air from her lungs comes rushing out. She watches Fitz as he stands up, pulling on his tie, approaching the witness stand with the body language of someone who would much rather be on vacation in a blisteringly hot country than here. 

"Miss Kennedy," he swallows audibly. "The implication being raised here is that Nathan Prescott did not have an awareness or a knowledge of the consequences of his actions, because of long-term mental instability."

Nell pauses for a moment. "Yeah, that's correct."

"So I ask you," Fitz continues, "if Nathan Prescott himself knew that he was a sufferer of severe, behavior-altering psychiatric disorders or illnesses, do you not agree that he should have taken much more responsibility for monitoring his own actions, in the absence of proper psychological care?"

Nell frowns. "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that Nathan Prescott knew he was psychologically unwell, and nevertheless continued on a self-destructive path. He avoided the medications prescribed to him from a young age because he obviously did not like to be medicated."

Nell's answering glare is steely. "He wasn't taking his medications because no one had ever properly _educated_ him about his conditions or how his medications would help them," she retorts. "Would you take a bunch of meds you didn't understand, for problems you didn't fully understand, just because people were telling you? And, like I just said, there were a lot of medications he never should have been on. If he had been taken more regularly to a psychiatrist or even a doctor, who was able to monitor his biochemical responses more accurately--"

Carmin stands. "Your Honor, Mr. Fitzpatrick and the court have already been presented with evidence to back-up Miss Kennedy's statement that Nathan Prescott was neglected psychologically. Mr. Fitzpatrick's questioning is thus irrelevant and unclear."

"Sustained. Mr. Fitzpatrick, is there anything further you want to ask the witness?"

"Ouch," Warren murmurs. 

Fitz yanks on his tie again, flushed. "Nathan Prescott was eighteen, an adult, when he shot Chloe Price. He was no longer the responsibility of his parents. He was surely aware that he needed help, if he was not functioning. Do you agree, Miss Kennedy, it was then his responsibility that he did not seek help before last October?" 

Carmin stands again, a small look of incredulity on her face. "My client was eighteen for barely two months by last October. Mr. Fitzpatrick's point is ridiculous."

"He is _bombing_ ," Warren hisses, elbowing Max.

"I know what you're trying to say," Nell says. "You're trying to say that Nathan, if he was really so debilitated, would've desperately sought help before October. But you have to understand that the state of his mental health _was_ his normal. He did not have the tools or the capacity to understand it, so from a young age, he just accepted it. He didn't know any different."

A rupture of whispers and mumbles flits across the courtroom. Max looks at Nathan. His shoulders are trembling. 

"No further questions, your Honor," Fitz says, a little pathetically.

Nell departs, taking a seat on the opposite side of the court. 

Carmin stands up, smoothing her blouse down. Max's breath catches thickly in her throat.

 _Kate,_  she thinks.  _Kate is up next. She has to be._ And that means the take-down of Sean Prescott is hurtling towards them, too, at breakneck speed. Max just hopes they're ready.

But the judge holds up her hand, stopping Carmin in her tracks. 

"The sheer level of evidence given to the jury today these past few hours is substantial," says the judge, "and I think it would be the interests of both sides to allow this information to be digested. The court is adjourned for today. It will resume here tomorrow, at noon sharp."

The moment the words are said, the court erupts into a flurry of movement. Fitz, shoulders slack as he throws his notes into his beat-up old briefcase, everyone in the rows getting to their feet as the judge slips out the exit. Her vision of Nathan is blocked by those in front of her. Max stands, stomach dipping, suddenly overcome by an urge to somehow grab him and tell him what she knows before she's dragged away. 

"Look out," Warren hisses urgently.

Max looks at him, confused. Then she spots them -- David and Joyce, coming down the ailse. 

Joyce has been crying, her eyes puffy and rimmed with red. David has bags beneath his eyes, and a five o'clock shadow that seems to be growing all the more prominent with every second that passes. Their tired faces are writ with a palpable despair, one that grips tight on Max's insides, and sears into her brain. 

Her heart plummets. She rushes to Joyce, her body flooding with a hot adrenaline, a terrible guilt.

"Joyce--"

She is cut off. Joyce holds up a hand. "What is it, Max? It's been a very long day. David and I would like to go home." 

"I'm so sorry. Joyce, I--"

Her expression holds none of the warmth that always enveloped Max with comfort. She's not even looking at her, her eyes cast somewhere over Max's shoulder, at the door she's trying to get to. 

The walls of Max's throat are crumbling. Her voice sounds tight when she speaks. 

"I told the truth," she says shakily. "I had to. That was all - that was all I could do--" 

Joyce says nothing. Behind her, David is tight-jawed, staring darkly at the ground. 

"Please, don't be mad," Max whispers. "I wasn't trying to hurt you. I needed to tell the truth." 

"I'm not mad, honey," Joyce says, with a quiet, broken softness. "I'm just... exhausted. Please. We have to go." 

Max steps aside. David stalks past her hotly, a hand coming up to rest comfortingly on Joyce's shoulder. They disappear out the door, and, as badly as Max wants to chase after them and explain, she lets them go. 

Warren touches her wrist gently. "Are you okay?"

"No," she says. "But it doesn't matter."

"Max--"

"Nathan, I have to tell him--"

She turns and looks, but Nathan's seat is empty. Her blood beats loudly in her ears. She spots two orderlies from the hospital, leading him out through a side-exit. 

" _Wait!_ " She shouts, but there are too many people around her talking, too much buzz and bustle, and the sound is swallowed up. Her stomach drops as the door shuts, and Nathan is gone, and no, no, _no_ \--

"Max?" Carmin suddenly materializes, when a gap in the departing crowd appears. She's holding her bag, staring at her. "What's wrong?"

"Carmin, you have to bring Nathan back here--"

"Excuse me?"

"I have to talk to him."

"Are you serious?" Carmin looks like she's about to laugh, but then holds it in, once she appears to realize Max isn't kidding around. "What's going on? Why do you need to talk to him?" 

Max gestures inarticulately, desperately, the blood spreading hot to her cheeks. "It's -- It's about the trial."

"Specifically...?"

Max huffs. "It's about Dean."

Carmin's bewilderment dissipates. Suddenly, she looks older, and weighed down.

"I need to talk to you about that myself," she says tightly. She sets her bag down on the seat next to her, hesitating for a long moment. 

The court is empty now, and the silence crowds Max in. It makes her breath sound like roaring wind.

"When the judge adjourned today," Carmin says finally, "I was relieved. Because I was going to call up Kate Marsh to testify next, and when she did, that was when I was going to start introducing Sean to this."

"I know," Max says, confused. "So?"

" _So_ ," Carmin looks around, as though the Prescott patriarch might be looming threateningly over her shoulder. "The evidence we have, it's... not ideal. As incompetent as Fitzpatrick is, he still knows how to recognize when someone is weak. If he starts attacking our side for relevance, you know, for how Sean's involvement in the Dark Room connects with Chloe's death, I... I don't have anything foolproof to argue back. The judge, and the jury, will see that clear as day."

Max stares at her for a long moment. Shock rises underneath her skin, penetrating through in stinging pinpricks. 

"What are you talking about? We have that voicemail, we have the construction papers, the account book, we have the autopsy report--"

"The voicemail mentions Sean only vaguely," Carmin retorts, "the construction papers prove nothing but the fact he knew about a storm bunker, not a malicious Dark Room, and the autopsy report and account book prove nothing but the fact Dean Prescott really did die of a ketamine overdose, and not a heart condition." She takes a step forward, holding Max in her sights.

And Max can't believe what she sees in the lawyer's usually confident eyes.

She sees -- doubt. Uncertainty.

 _Fear_.

"I thought I could connect it all," Carmin admits quietly. "I thought -- I thought it wouldn't be as complicated as this. But it's not enough." 

"No," Max snaps. "That's bullcrap."

"I'm sorry, Max," Carmin sighs. "I might be able to keep Nathan out of jail, but I don't have anything damning enough to send his father there."

"But Chloe," Max whispers brokenly, her limbs trembling. "I promised her, I'd--"

"You what?"

"No," Max is filled with a sudden fury. She points her finger right in Carmin's face. "You're not allowed to give up. There has to be _something_. Nobody can be that good at covering up their tracks--"

"You forget," Carmin says sadly, "I've known Sean for decades. And yes, they can be."

Max's mind is propelled suddenly, violently, with the memories of Dean, with the graffiti, the storm. It all crashes together in her mind, an unbelievable explosion of chaos. 

He wouldn't be trying to warn her, if there was nothing she could do. He just wouldn't be.

"Dean Prescott," Carmin goes on, "might be gone, but his reputation is still here, Max. He was extremely well-liked by this community. The squeaky-clean image of the all-American, Arcadia Bay boy. Trying to convince a jury that he was a drug-addicted pervert who supplied Mark Jefferson's seedy photography ring wouldn't just be hard, it would be the challenge of my _career_. Even if I had the evidence."

Max is shaking her head rapidly. She feels like crying, and the tears are coming, stinging her eyes. 

This can't be the way it ends. They've come too far. 

"No." The word practically collapses out of her lips. 

"I'm sorry."

" _No._ "

"I can probably swing a hefty child neglect rap, but he wouldn't do the time he deserves. He might not even get jail time at all." 

Max raises her head. Carmin seems uncomfortably by the glassiness of her eyes, but Max doesn't care. 

"I want to see Nathan."

"Max, he has to go back to the hospital--"

"Let me see him. Please." 

Carmin watches her, her face a mix of things.

Max narrows her eyes. "You owe me." 

"Two minutes," Carmin says. "Not a second more."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Max waits in the silent, vacant courtroom, her head bowed, hands over her damp eyes. 

She wills the time to fly by, and then for it to slow down, and then to stop utterly. 

And then Nathan walks back through the side-exit, and it really does stop, for a single, weightless moment. 

He's abandoned his jacket somewhere, probably in whatever vehicle is waiting to take him back to St. Dymphna's, and his tie loosened around his neck. His eyes are red, like he's been crying or else rubbing at them roughly, or maybe a mixture of both. He stands there, stunned, just staring at her. 

Max stands, her heart lifting into a more accelerated beat. She clasps her hands in front of her, because if she didn't, she fears she might try and put her arms around him. She does take a step forward though, to close the painful distance. 

She's conscious that they only have two minutes, and that Carmin is most likely standing on the other side of that door, keeping an eye on her watch. 

Max says, "I--", at the exact same time Nathan does.

They both stop. Max takes another step forward, wondering why it's so hard to talk. 

"Carmin said," Nathan finally murmurs, his voice husky, "you wanted to talk to me. That it was important."

Another step. Another deep breath that curls in her throat. "Yeah."

"That it was about my brother."

Max nods slowly. He looks sleep-deprived, now that she's closer. His lips are chewed, reddened. There are circles staining the ashen skin beneath his eyes. 

Nathan shakes his head. "I don't understand."

_One minute, thirty._

"You're in danger," Max blurts.

"What?"

"We don't have a lot of time. You need to listen to me."

She inches forward a little more, and he's right there, looking down at her with slightly widened eyes. 

"Nathan," she says firmly, "do you remember anything -- _anything_ \-- else about Dean and the Dark Room before he died? Or about your father being a part of it?"

Nathan's lips part, but no words come out.

"Are there, agh, I don't know, files? Documents? Anything at all that puts your father right there in the Dark Room?"

"No," Nathan says, and Max hates that it frustrates her. She feels it below the more overpowering joy flooding through her, at seeing him, at talking to him, at looking at his red bitten lips and remembering how they had felt on hers.

"I'm sorry," he says. "But I already told you everything I know. Everything that I remember."

Max deflates. That damn stinging behind her eyes is back, and her head hangs pitifully. She brings a hand up to them and rubs.

"I'm sorry," Nathan says again, but quieter. 

"It's - It's okay. I believe you." 

Those last three words seem to strike him in some way. She lifts her head and sees something close to guilt, to confusion, curling like smoke in his expression. 

"But can you think about it some more?" Max adds. "And if you remember anything, tell Carmin."

He nods. Stares at her.

"I'm sorry," Max says then, throat tight and sharp like she's swallowed a rock. 

"For what?"

"I hurt you." 

Nathan looks awkward, shifting from foot to foot. 

"But you were right," he says after an epoch. "You weren't lying to me. Today, on the stand, you--"

"Told the truth." She nods. "But I still should have told you earlier. I didn't want you to find out like that. But I guess I was ... I was scared."

He meets her gaze, wincing. "Are you... pissed at me?"

She blinks. "No. Why would I be?"

"Because I flipped out on you last week," he says roughly. "I completely shut you down."

Max shakes her head. "I understand why you were upset, Nathan."

"Still," he argues. "I should've listened. Should've... fuck, should've given you some credit." 

"It's okay. It's out in the open now." She bites her lip. "Plus, we're... we're okay now, aren't we?"

"Yeah." His arm twitches, as if he thought about reaching out. "Yeah, we are."

 _Thirty seconds_. 

"Nathan," Max says softly. "I want you to know that I care about you. A-A lot, actually."

His silence wounds her a little, but then again, she shouldn't feel surprised. She glances down at her clammy hands, and then back up, to where Nathan is watching her intently.

"But," Max adds, "if you don't feel the same anymore, I also want you to know that I understand." 

The silence beats.

"I..." Nathan looks away. "I think I just need some time."

Max feels a blow to her stomach, but again, she shouldn't have expected forgiveness so quickly. Still, it feels like an unspoken rejection, and it crawls beneath her skin. She feels suddenly cold, the distance between them immeasurable once more. 

The door opens, and Carmin is there.

"Let's go," she demands.

Max tries to smile at him, but it feels more like a sad grimace. "See you."

Nathan looks at her for a long moment. His fingers reach out and wrap around her wrist, squeezing, just briefly. And then he's turning and heading out the door. 

Carmin approaches her, arms folded.

Max shrugs. "There is no more evidence," she says, brittle. "He doesn't remember anything. He can't help us."

Carmin's voice is soft and pitying. "I'm sorry, Max."

She leaves Max alone in the courtroom, the walls closing in, Max's sense of hopelessness rising.

The tears finally fall. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's getting dark when they make it back to Arcadia. Her parents drop her off outside the dormitories and decide to go for a walk around the campus, which Max is relieved about. She needs to be on her own right now, to not think about today. She had pretended to be asleep in the car, just to save herself from her mother's inevitable questioning. 

They aren't talking about what Max said up on the stand. They seem to be purposefully avoiding it, talking animatedly about other things instead, but Max can see the confusion lingering beneath their expressions whenever they think she isn't looking. 

The air is soapy and strange, and it feels like rain is coming again. Max walks with her arms around herself towards the dormitory steps, crunching over the damp grass. 

Samuel sits on the top step, nursing a mug of something hot, his gaze tipped up toward the foreboding sky. 

Wordlessly, Max stops, and sits next to him. He doesn't seem to mind.

Seconds turn to minutes, and for once, the silence is welcome. Max closes her eyes and exhales softly, allowing her mind to smooth itself over into a flat, untroubled plain. For a moment, listening to quiet, ticklish swirl of the leaves on the ground, to Samuel's content sipping, Max tries to feel like she used to. Normal. Relatively carefree. 

"You look like you've had a long day, Max," Samuel says after a while, his voice as quiet as the mood. 

"You can say that again."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

"Not really."

Samuel hums. "It's been a tough year."

Max draws her knees up underneath her chin and turns her head, hair spilling across her forehead. "Do you mind if I ask you something?" 

"Samuel always has time for conversation."

"Do you believe in fate, Samuel?"

"Fate?" He considers the word, chews it like a new exotic food. "Fate is... subjective. It's hard to believe in something that changes all the time."

"But do you think that somebody is always destined to end up a certain way? Like, that someone is always destined to lose, or to... to die?"

He lifts his mug to his lips, pausing for a moment after he drinks. "Fate and destiny are two different things."

Max frowns. "But they mean the same thing."

Samuel shakes his head. 

"Fate is uncontrollable," he answers. "But people can control their destiny. They can create it, mould it. And so their fate is just the consequence of whatever path they have chosen." 

Max swallows and it hurts, like there's a bruise in her throat. "Chloe believed that dying was her fate," the words come out angrier than she intended, but Samuel seems unaffected. "She -- She accepted her death, because of that. How -- How the hell can a universe work like that? Chloe was _good_. She was -- she was amazing. But her fate was to die after a bullshit number of years alive? She could have done so much, she could have been so much--"

"Samuel has learned that this is the great mystery of life. Sometimes, people are only destined to be in this world for a short time. And yet," he looks at her, "the imprint their fingertips make on the earth, and on those around them, is eternal. Samuel is certain Chloe Price is eternal, and that she watches over you, Max. Samuel sees her legacy living on in her friends, and their children."

"But I can't accept that," Max says icily. "That sometimes people just die, because that's the way it has to be."

"Not accept," Samuel murmurs. "Understand."

Max rubs her hands up her arms, knowing that the rain is coming soon, and she has to get inside.

"Samuel," she says, "what do I need to do?"

Somehow, she feels as though she doesn't have to specify. 

Samuel sips from his mug, a picture of peace.

"Young Max must figure that out herself." 

"But--"

"Fate is uncontrollable," he says. "But destiny can be changed, and consequently, fate is changed. If a bad egg chooses instead a life of kindness, serenity and generosity, then their fate will reward them."

"Are you saying..." Max looks at him incredulously. "I have to teach Sean Prescott how to be good?"

"No." Samuel looks offended by the very suggestion. "There are some in this world who have been in darkness for so long, it has invaded their soul, and they cannot be inspired to set upon a different path."

"So...?"

Samuel smiles at her. "If Max were to break the hold of the darkness, and then change its legacy into one of light, Arcadia's future would be secure enough to... convince some interested parties to release their protection of it." 

Max presses the heels of her hands hard against her sore eyes. "Samuel, please. That's literally a riddle. Can't you just tell me?"

He stands, a look of fondness on his face. "Samuel truly hopes you will change Arcadia's fate," he says softly. "This town... it's tired. When its fate comes, I hope we can all rest."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Her parents are staying at a hotel in town for the duration of the trial, in a beige, stuffy room with fluffy white towels and itchy sheets. Despite the fact Max doesn't have the space for them to crash in her dorm, part of her kind of wishes they could be here at night, when it's too quiet and her room feels hollow. It used to be her safe space, but that atmosphere is rapidly waning. As finals approach and the awful Everest of Future looms, it's starting to feel like she's just living in a giant hourglass, the sand raining down on her constantly. Her time here running out, right before her eyes.

Time. It's always her biggest problem. 

It is close to eight thirty in the evening, and Max has been at her desk for two straight hours. The sky outside is gray syrup, the windows coated in globs of sticky, cold rain. It's that time of year when the sun is supposed to be out longer, when the air is supposed to be drenched in color and warm and bright. But Max can't remember the last time the sun was visible in a blue sky above Arcadia Bay. 

A storm brewing close by, her brain foggy and unable to hold a single thought of anything that isn't impending trouble. It's not exactly how she pictured her last couple months here. 

To her credit, her mind seems to have offered her a small window of opportunity tonight. For these two hours, it appears to have wiped itself clear, and it's letting her absorb some of her classwork. After a while of jotting down study notes, staring at them hard in an effort to make them stay forever where they have imprinted on her brain, Max actually feels... productive. Bizarrely. Studying, she should have realized by now, makes for a decent distraction. If she hadn't avoided it until now, she might feel more ready for that exam hall. 

But by nine o'clock, she understands her moment of brain power has been brief, and that window has closed. Her brain starts to spit the words back at the page, a wall coming down to block them. A wave of tiredness washes over her, softens her bones. Max rubs at her eyes, her pen stilling against her notepad. She can't force this, her mind has hit its limit. 

She sighs. Her pen drifts from the lines to the corner of the margin, perfectly blank and clean. She starts doodling, ink making deep blue lines that form into nothing, really, just doodling for the sake of doodling. 

Her thoughts turn, as they always do, to Nathan, to Chloe, to Arcadia's messy, shady underbelly. 

Her eyes are heavy and drifting closed after mere minutes, brain weighed down by the effort of once again trying to make sense of the chaotic cobweb. She leans on her hand, and underneath the spirals and circles and nonsensical wiry lines, she writes something down. 

 

_Hey Dean_

 

Max isn't excited about the prospect, and the consequences, about yet another disturbed night's sleep slumped over her desk and books, so she gets to her feet, dropping her pen and stretching her arms high above her head. She feels the joints crack, winces at their disjointed, stiff ache. A shower, she thinks, might soothe her for sleep. Her brain is starting to feel like a hamster on a spinning wheel, it needs to be calmed, slowed, steadied. 

She grabs her shower kit and slips out into the dimly lit corridor. She hears Juliet before she sees her, bouncing on the balls of her feet outside of her own room, her face illuminated with a gleeful smile. Dana and Brooke are with her, the three of them gushing in excited tones. 

When Juliet turns and spots her, she gestures eagerly for Max to come over. 

"You look psyched about something," Max says to her, her own lips curving into a smile. "What's up?"

"It's _big_ news," Dana interjects.

Max, a little bewildered, looks between them. "What?"

And when Juliet takes her by the hands, smile growing even more, Max realizes her eyes are glossy with tears. 

"I can't believe it, Max," Juliet whispers. "I-I got into _Columbia!_ I got early acceptance!"

"Columbia University?" Max's mouth falls open. "Juliet, no way! That's your--"

"Dream college," Brooke finishes, nodding. "Their journalism programmer is one of the best in the country."

"I'm going to be a journalist!" Juliet adds, with an awed expression. "A real one!" 

Max pulls her in tight, arms wrapping around Juliet's excitedly dancing frame. "Congratulations, Juliet," she says against her shoulder. "I am so happy for you."

"You're going to come and visit, right? Like, it's _New York_ ," she gestures around at the others, "New fucking York! You all have to come and live it up with me!" 

"Of course," Max laughs, "I already can't wait."

"If you can find the time to visit in between your iconic photography career," Dana teases, nudging Max. "Warren said you were looking at Washington?"

"Uh, kinda, but I'm only just--"

"We're going to stay in touch after we leave here," Dana goes on, oblivious to Max's awkward stumbling. "We just -- we just have to."

"We will," Brooke says. "Although, I'm not exactly excited about flying from Caltech to New York on a student budget."

"Then strap a chair to that drone of yours," Dana jokes.

Eager to direct the topic of college away from herself, Max joins in, smiling. "You know, you probably _could_  engineer something like that with your brain power, Brooke."

Brooke smirks. "Noted. I'll add it to my ever-growing list of projects."

Max jerks her thumb over her shoulder. "I gotta go shower before I fall asleep right here, but seriously, I am so excited for you Juliet." She squeezes her shoulder. "Remember us when you're famous."

Juliet laughs delightedly. "Um, I could say the same for you!"

Max grins, but it fades when she turns from them and heads into the bathroom. She wishes the words, or the whole issue of college in general, didn't sting so much. That she didn't feel hopeless, or directionless, or... stuck. 

She takes longer than usual underneath the hot stream of water, rolling her neck as it beats her tired shoulders. Her mind is now a wrestling match, contrasting thoughts battling for the upper hand. 

Part of her is overwhelmingly, deeply, inexplicably thrilled for Juliet. She pictures her waltzing through the beautiful, stately campus of Columbia, flanked by a small army of new friends and beaming from ear to ear. She imagines her on the bustling streets of New York, thrusting a microphone at passers-by, extracting thoughtful answers, inspiring debates, making her name known. Her thoughts fast-forward, to Juliet in a long robe, graduating with honors and a steady job in a newspaper or television studio already lined up. 

Max's chest fills with a lifting glow. This must be what it feels like to see a dream come true for somebody, to see all of their hard work and dedication rewarded. Juliet's going to be fantastic. All of the girls will be.

And yet. As ever, there is always another side to the positive thoughts. 

Max feels... jealous, and then furious at herself as a result. She has to admit to herself, standing there beneath the spray and staring at the shower wall, that when Juliet told her the news, a little piece of something had snapped inside of her. Something... sank. Because it's another reminder that they're all growing, all moving, all achieving, and Max remains sutured to the same miserable spot. She's rooted right in the middle of the crossroads, whilst everyone else strolls past her, heading for different sign posts. 

She knows it's unfair, it's _mean_ , to feel such a throbbing envy. But she can't help it. 

At least, she tells herself, she's able to understand that it's wrong to feel this way. She can check herself and challenge these thoughts. 

She's going to be happy for Juliet, for everyone who gets similar news in these last few weeks of Blackwell. She's going to be truly, one-hundred per cent happy. 

Max dries off and slides back into her pajamas, wrapping her damp hair up in a towel. The corridor is empty when she comes back out, but she can hear the three of them in Dana's room, giggling and chatting and swapping plans for after graduation. Max tries to smile through the subsequent dip in her chest, but it crumbles pretty quickly. 

She decides to watch a movie, something animated or slapstick, so that she doesn't have to concentrate or make her brain work. She pads back over to her desk, hand reaching to grab her laptop.

Something among the clutter of textbooks and paper catches her eye. 

She stops dead, body clenching into a freeze. 

Something is written beneath her doodles, beneath her scribbles, beneath where she has written  _Hey, Dean._

Max traces a water-wrinkled finger over the inked words, a shiver shooting down her spine.

 

_Hi_

 

Max's lips stretch into a smile. She shakes her head wordlessly.

There's no doubt about it. After all, she'd know that handwriting anywhere.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Max blinks awake slowly, under the covers after what feels like a couple hours of genuine sleep.

But something is wrong. 

It's not morning. Her room is bathed in blueish darkness, and the rain is hailing against the window, the night sky still hanging heavily over Arcadia. There is a dry taste in her mouth usually associated with waking in the middle of the night. 

And her alarm is going off.

Max sits up, the sheets falling from her groggy frame. She groans as she gropes through the dark for her bedside table, fingers splayed in search of her phone. 

Why the hell did she set her alarm for the middle of the night? Why would she want to wake--

A blurred glance at her phone screen fills in the blanks. It's not her alarm, it's her phone actually ringing. Numbers flash insistently on screen but Max's eyes are still too puffy with sleep to make them out.

She turns on her bedside lamp, wincing as the room is illuminated and her eyes are forced to quickly adjust. 

Her fingers scramble to answer the call, her brain barely able to process who the fuck is calling her at one thirty in the morning--

"Hello?" she groans.

"Max! I'm sorry, shit, I know it's so late--"

" _Nell?_ " Max's eyes snap open then, her tiredness evaporating. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, I got your number from Kristine." Before Max can even question that statement, Nell speaks again, and for the first time, Max hears the tone of her voice.

She doesn't sound like Nell at all. She sounds... _terrified._

"Max, listen--"

"What's going on? Nell?" 

"It's Nathan," she answers shrilly. 

"Nathan?"

"Max, is he with you?"

Max stops breathing.

She is silent for ten solid seconds. 

"What?" she finally croaks. "O-Of course not. Why would he be...?"

"Shit," Nell hisses. " _Shit_."

"What's going on? Where's Nathan?"

"Not _here_."

"What? What the hell do you mean?"

"I _mean_ at midnight I was doing my usual rounds, and I went into his room--"

"And?"

"And he wasn't fucking in it!"

Max inhales so sharply she nearly chokes. "What?"

"Max, he's _gone_."

 

 

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys continue to DESTROY me with your response to this. Thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who has taken the time to kudos, leave feedback, etc. It's overwhelming and you're all amazing <3 I hope you enjoy this one! Updates are slower because I want to make sure I write these last few installments as best I can. 
> 
> Two chapters, and a little epilogue, left!!

 

The words hover in Max's paralysed mind for a moment, suspended in astonished space. Suddenly, she cannot ponder their meaning. Nell can't possibly be saying what it sounds like. She has to be dreaming. Any moment now, she'll wake up. 

Time slows to a halt, and then violently roars back to life. 

"Gone? How can he be  _gone?_ "

"You think I'm kidding?"

"No! I just -- how? Where the hell could he go?"

"If I knew that, I'd have kicked his ass by now." There is a clash in the background, the slam of a door. Max can hear several raised voices. 

"Crap," Max says shakily. "This is bad."

"Bad? No, we've  _passed_  bad. We flew by it in a fucking sports car. This is catastrophic." Nell is rustling papers. "We got orderlies combing the gardens, we're checking all of the security cameras. I'm about to call the cops, his parents, the fucking FBI if I have to." She pauses for a second, breathing hard. "He definitely didn't go out the front door, he couldn't have. I don't even know how he got off the  _ward_."

Max paces to the window, stares out at the howling wind and rain. She thinks of Nathan wrapped in it, shivering and cold and alone. A stab of fear pierces her heart. 

"And you think he could be  _here?_  At Blackwell?"

"Max, he could be anywhere." And that's not just anxiety coating Nell's voice. It's undiluted terror. 

"But why Blackwell?" Max asks hastily. "Why come back here?"

Nell hesitates, a drawn out pause that quakes with the hot reality of what's happening. 

"He was acting... off," Nell says eventually. "Before he went to bed."

"Off? Off how?"

"Shit, I don't know. Distracted. He didn't eat dinner, sulked off to his room early. Called his sister and then hung up on her a couple minutes later. But I  _told_  myself it was obviously because of the trial, that he's just skittish, nervous. Now he's gone and disappeared... I thought he might have contacted you. He trusts you--"

There is a sudden bang in the background, the unmistakable din of a door hitting the wall. Practically kicked in. 

"Goddamn it, here we go," Nell groans.

Max jolts as a familiar voice bursts, furious, from the background.

" _What_  kind of mess are you running here? A fucking kindergarten?" Carmin exclaims. She's pissed and tired, and Max is suddenly glad she is miles away. "Is it not your JOB to ensure your patients' safety?"

"Take it down a notch, lady," Nell snaps, "we have patients still sleeping--"

Carmin laughs coldly. "Are you sure they're still here? Because APPARENTLY staying at this facility is voluntary--"

"You're hilarious, really! Your jokes are appreciated in this time of fucking crisis."

"Have you even called the police? Have you done  _anything?_ "

"You keep bleating like that and I won't have to call--"

"Hey!" Max hisses, voice straining above a whisper. "Nell, put me on speakerphone."

"God, hold on." More rustling. "Go ahead."

Max sucks in a dizzying breath. "Carmin, do you have any idea where Nathan might have gone?"

"Max?" Carmin asks confusedly. "You called Max?"

"Of course I did," Nell says matter-of-factly. "They're close, aren't they? I thought Nathan might have called her--"

"Has he?" Carmin demands.

"No!" Max says. "I swear."

"Christ," Carmin sighs, static bursting over the line. "What the hell is he doing?"

Panic has set Max's teeth on edge. They chatter though it's not cold. Her bones shift, unsettled to the core. "I want to help. What can I do?"

"Absolutely nothing," Carmin returns. "You're going to hang up and go to sleep."

Max scowls. "But--"

"There's nothing you can do. We only have a few hours to find him before trial time, and I want to keep as few people involved as possible."

"You think you can find him before the morning?" Nell says, half-shrilly. "He could be halfway to Timbuktu by now--"

"You're not helping," Carmin says, and now she has assumed her lawyer voice. She is abruptly cool and collected and could sell somebody the moon. "Here is what we are going to do. We're going to continue to search the hospital and the grounds, as per St. Dymphna's Code Orange protocol. In the meantime, we will dispatch a team of orderlies to travel around Arcadia. If we find nothing by five am, you are to contact Scarlett,  _not_  Sean. If he is still missing by dawn, then, and  _only_  then, are you to contact the police."

"I'm sorry," Nell says, after a beat. "I was under the impression you were some kind of Ally McBeal. What you just lectured me to do is  _against_  hospital protocol--"

"It is against hospital protocol to lose a patient in the first place," Carmin returns icily. "I'm sure St. Dymphna's would like to avoid involving the authorities. Find Nathan before dawn, and we ensure the judge tomorrow morning will never know this happened."

"I'm with Carmin," Max interjects. "There's only so far he could've gone, right? We'll find him."

"Always the optimist," Nell hums. "God, alright. I'll grab a group of orderlies to head out and search the town."

"I want to--"

"No, Max. I only called to check he wasn't there, and I'm sorry I had to. Try and get some sleep, alright?"

" _Like I could_ \--"

"If I can do it on three-hundred coffees, you can." 

"But--"

More rustling, a phone ringing. Carmin barking an order at a startled orderly who actually lets loose a fearful squeak. 

"I better go," Nell says. "I'll call, if we find him."

"Promise?" Max clutches the phone with both hands.

"I promise."

Max's ears are ringing when she hangs up, the silence of her room newly suffocating. Her ear is hot where the phone had been, and another type of heat is crawling slowly beneath her skin. A horrific panic, drowning her. 

_Nathan, where the hell are you?_

She paces relentlessly for a few minutes, sweat plastering her shirt to her skin. Her heart is doing enthusiastic jumping-jacks. Her hair, still damp from the shower earlier, curls at the nape of her neck. She tries to turn on her laptop, for what she doesn't know yet, but she's too impatient to watch it load up. She throws open the window and stiffens at the blast of rain-soaked wind. Her sweat turns cold. 

Her brain fills with him, of where he is, of why he is. Months ago they were connected, she had learned to memorize every one of his expressions, actions, and vice versa. Maybe months ago she would have known exactly where to find him. When her heart knew him better. Now there is distance, and every day is a struggle to keep hold of him. Now he looks at her differently and it hurts. If anything happens to him, it's partly her fault. 

Max collapses on the couch and drops her groggy head into her hands. She wants to cry, but for some reason the tears won't spark. 

This is awful. Brutal. She paces some more, sits down and then stands. She falls onto the rumpled bed covers, cheek smashed into the pillow, helpless and hopeless. She wants everything to just  _stop_. She wants her mind to be lit with the sudden and brilliant knowledge of what to do, how to fix this, how to soothe Arcadia's bruises clean. She wants Chloe here, with her big smile and eyes alight with mischievous beauty, telling her everything is going to be okay.

Max stares at the illuminated hour on her phone until the numbers blur. 2:58am. The whole world is still and coming apart, all at once.

Her eyes close, heavy from exhaustion and weary from stress.

When they open, it is 3:22, her mind is foggy, and someone is knocking on her door.

 

 

* * *

 

 

They were thirteen. And it had been one of those near-perfect summer days, when the grass is a brighter green than usual, a shade that only comes out on days like that. The sky had been cloudless, cerulean blue, full of nothing but the odd passing airplane. Max could remember everything, from the dirt on her knees to the sticky, salty tears staining her eyes.

She remembered Chloe's hand in hers, her skin hot and clammy, as they knelt in the powdery, freshly-dugged dirt in her backyard.

She remembered a lawn mower, the cloying scent of meat sizzling on a neighbour's grill. She'd been struck by the surreal sensation that the world was still spinning. In contrast to the cloud of grief and shock hanging heavy over the Price house, everywhere else was joyously mundane. 

William stood next to them, sinking a shovel into a soft mound of dirt. He scattered it over the freshly dug hole, with all the care and gentleness that had constantly radiated from him in sun rays. 

Joyce had been there too, tiny beads of perspiration rising to her sun-cooked skin. She hated the blistering heat that came to Arcadia rarely in the summer, she always turned red after only minutes. But she was there nonetheless, fanning her face, rubbing Chloe's back.

She'd hated that cat. Had its claw marks scarring her arms as proof of her many attempts to befriend it. But her eyes were wet nonetheless, her sorrow breaking through the face she had been trying to keep passive and strong. 

"Chloe," William said softly, letting his shovel rest against the fence. "Would you like to say a few words?"

Chloe's red eyes were fixed immovably on Bongo's fresh grave. 

She squeezed Max's hand, as the silence stretched. And Max knew, this being one of many silent communications, what Chloe was asking.

"I'll start," Max offered gently, fingers tightening in return. 

"Good idea," Joyce smiled. 

"Bongo," Max swallowed, "Bongo was... a really good kitty. I'll miss him every day. He was the best superhero sidekick. And... and even if he did hate when we put those capes on him, he only ever scratched us a couple of times. And, uh, bit us twice. So."

Chloe's shoulders began to shake, much to Max's horror. 

"Chloe, crap, I didn't mean--"

Chloe raised her head then, long blonde hair falling away from her face.

And she was  _laughing_.

"I-I'm sorry," Chloe wheezed, "but that has to be the _worst_ eulogy I've ever heard."

Max colored. "Hey! I've never had to say a eulogy for a cat before," she argues. "Or, uh, for anyone before--"

"Bongo, buddy," William said, "you deserved to go when you were old and frail. Like your aunt Max said, you were truly a superhero. And you deserved a hero's death, not an early demise at the hands of a 4x4 SUV--"

" _William!_ " Joyce snapped.

But Chloe was laugh-snorting, trying to hold it in and failing, and soon Max is losing it too, hand coming up to her mouth. Joyce smacked William's shoulder but she was smiling, shaking her head at them all, the tight strain in her eyes lifting.

"Poor Bongo," Max said when her laughter subsides. "We're laughing at his own funeral."

"He's probably laughing too," Chloe said, wiping at her eyes. "Some superhero. Vanquished by a stupid car."

"Totally not heroic." 

"Why don't you put the gravestone on, girls?" Joyce suggests. 

It took them almost an hour to decorate. Not out of effort, but because Chloe had been crying so hard and had to keep stopping. But now, her eyes are softer, and she looks almost proud of their painted and decorated creation, as she helps Max slide it over the newly-packed in hole. 

"That looks great," Joyce said, hand on Chloe's shoulder. 

"You think there's a cat heaven?" Chloe asked, getting to her feet and dusting the dirt off her knees. 

"Definitely," Max replied. "It's just one long game of chase the laser pointer." 

"But then there's gotta be, like, a bird heaven. And a bug heaven. And an armadillo heaven--"

"An  _armadillo_  heaven?"

Chloe half laughed, bony elbow colliding with Max's shoulder. "Shut up! Armadillos are boss!"

"Goodness, heaven's gotta be ginormous then," mused William, always enthusiastic to join in with any kind of silly Chloe-Max debate. "If it's got to fit everybody and everything that's ever lived."

Chloe paused thoughtfully. 

"Maybe it's not one giant heaven, but a billion smaller ones."

William smiled affectionately. "Really? Now, how would that work?"

"Can we please change the subject to something less morbid?" Joyce groaned. 

Chloe ignored her. "Everyone gets their own heaven, like, purpose-built. So it's different for everyone. And every time somebody dies, their heaven is just... created, and added to the rest. So there's always space." 

"A personal heaven, huh?" William scratched his chin. "You know, that's a pretty cool idea. What would my heaven be like?"

Chloe took the question seriously, pausing again. She looked at Max, silently encouraging her to contribute.

"Bright," Max beamed. "You probably barbecue a lot."

"Ooh! And there's a sports stadium, where the Arcadia Sharks are always playing," Chloe added. 

Joyce sighed, mockingly dramatic. "You mean even in the afterlife, I have to listen to him talk about sports?" 

"You'll have your own heaven," Chloe said. Max will never forget how she had looked like she believed, or at least longed to believe, the words spilling from her lips. "You won't even have to go to Dad's, if you don't want to."

"Abandon me?" William teased, wrapping a strong arm around Joyce's shoulders. "I guess the 'till death do us part' thing was a total lie then, honey." 

Joyce smiled. "You can visit."

"What would your heaven be like?" Max asked her. 

Joyce rolled her eyes. "Endless hours of my family giving me some peace and quiet." She makes a move back towards the house, reaching for the sliding door. "Now stop this heaven chatter and come in for some pie."

"Wait," Chloe said, "I want to know what my heaven would be like."

"One big party, I bet," William said, ruffling her hair as he follows Joyce into the house. "Or like a long concert."

The sliding door was left ajar, and through the sunlit Max could see the tantalizing sight of Joyce grabbing a strawberry pie from the fridge. But Chloe didn't go inside the house, she stayed, rooted to the spot, her eyes fixed to the newly erected gravestone, still smelling of fresh paint. 

Silently, Max reaches across the space between them, and takes her hand.

"I'm sorry," she said softly. 

"Yeah." Chloe squeezes her fingers. "But he's someplace better now, right?"

"Laser pointer heaven," Max reminds her.

Chloe smiles, tenser than before, but a smile nonetheless. "Thanks, Max." 

For some reason, that day had stayed with Max. Maybe it was because it was their first childhood brush with death, maybe it was because Max was reminded of how quickly and easily everything could snap, change, and be different forever. One minute Bongo was crossing the street, the next he wasn't. He was just gone.

But more than that, after that day, she had started to believe in Chloe's multiple heaven idea.  _Really_  believe in it. 

Since last year, Max has imagined Chloe's heaven dozens of times, and what she imagines always changes. Lately, though, her mind conjures up this:

Chloe's heaven is rainbow neon, impossibly lively and thriving with flowers, twisting rivers that glimmer in moonlight, not sunlight. Skyscrapers and rollercoasters. Snow-capped mountains dotting a smooth horizon line. Music is always playing, a dynamic soundtrack that changes according to Chloe's mood. There are skate parks and movie theatres showing her favorite films in glorious high-definition. All-you-can-eat buffets, endless beaches with soft golden sand.

She spends hours and hours in William's heaven, in Bongo's, in Rachel's. She laughs constantly, and when she does, the blue sky brightens with its musicality. 

And when she peers into one of the rivers, or peers up at that sky, she can see Max. She remarks and comments on everything about this past almost year, watches it along like a movie, popcorn optional. She hears every word Max says to her in her head. And she's happy. 

Nobody had asked Max about her heaven that day. If they had, she probably would have given some throwaway answer. A heaven with an endless photo film or an island paradise with a vast ocean to explore. At thirteen, nothing could've been better. 

But it's different now. She thinks her heaven would be quiet, and sleepy, and carefree. Her mind is always clear and her heart is always full, the holes in it patched up with an imaginary needle and thread. She is content, for the first time in a long time. She has days where she does nothing at all, and it's perfect. 

And Chloe is there. Max might change her mind about the heaven's location, aesthetic, sounds and smells. But no matter what, Chloe is always there. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Seconds melt to minutes. Max stares holes through her door, stunned.

The knocking comes again, more insistent. Knuckles trying to be quiet but failing. The person on the other side is shifting from foot to foot. 

If it's Warren, he would have texted her. But even Warren wouldn't come over at three am, study sesh be damned. 

Max stands, her vision tunneling. Her legs move as though they are underwater, dragging her over to the door against some gravitational force. 

_Knock knock. Knock knock._

It's Kate. Of course it's Kate. She probably can't sleep and knows there's always a chance Max is gripped by similar insomnia. She's just here for a chat, a soft word, a cup of tea and a middle-of-the-night giggle. 

Her hand reaches, shakily, for the handle.

It's Victoria. Dana. Alyssa. 

Has to be. 

Couldn't be--

A flock of birds violently flap their wings against Max's breastbone. Her fingers curl tighter around the handle, the cool seeping into her quivering skin.

She opens the door. 

The hallway is bathed in dark shadows and a silence that roars. 

And in the middle of it at all, stands Nathan, absolutely soaked to the skin. 

Shock spreads over Max like a thick blanket. For a moment, she is completely frozen in time and being, bones cement beneath her skin. Her eyes are the only things to move, darting with astonishment over every inch of his shivering frame.

The rainwater runs in dripping rivulets off his jacket, so drenched the red looks rusty brown. The plain white t-shirt beneath is equally as sopping, plastered to his skin so that Max can make out the flat plain of his stomach, the goosebumps raised there. The blue hospital pants look out of place, and his shoes are thickly caked with a squelching layer of mud and twigs. His hair has escaped its usual gelled hold because of the wet, and has instead blossomed into curls. He honestly looks like he took a shower with his clothes on. 

He is wild-eyed, milk-pale. Exhausted and manic, all at once. Staring at her, sucking in deep breaths that she does not hear him exhale.

Max finds her voice clinging to the back of her gummed-up throat. She claws it forward, the words shrill with panic. 

" _What are you_ \--"

Nathan's hands fly out and press against her mouth, muffling the rest of the sentence. Max starts at the sharp, numb cold of his fingers. He must be freezing.

"Ssh," he hisses. He looks uncertainly over her shoulder, nods towards her room. "Can we talk inside?"

Max hesitates, but finally steps aside. 

Nathan hurries after her, door shutting behind them both. Max turns and drinks in the profoundly surreal sight of Nathan Prescott standing in her dorm room, dripping all over the carpet. He looks around, his expression unknowable.  

"Why are you," she tries to ask, but her mind is racing, a million thoughts a minute. "Who --  _how_  did you -- how did you know where my room was?"

Nathan's eyes are running over her cluttered desk, her rumpled bed-sheets, the same couple outfits hanging up in her closet. "I remembered," he says, his voice scratchy and husky from cold air, "Victoria said last year that the new girl took the room across the hall."

Max takes a baffled step towards him. "Nathan--"

He shakes his head. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"I know I shouldn't be here. I know I seriously fucked up, by sneaking out." He grips at his hair. "I swear I'm not trying to run away. But, shit Max, I--"

"What the fuck are you doing? Why did you leave? How--?"

"There's no time," he says hastily, ignoring the towel when she holds it out. He exhales hard. "I'll tell you, just not fuckin' now. I have to -- jesus, I don't even know. I just need you to help me." 

"With what?" 

A beat of silence that hangs and hangs. 

"I remembered something," he tells her. "About Dean. Something... something that won't let me go."  

"You did?" She watches him as he moves around the room,  _looking_  for something. "And you just _had_ to break out of hospital to come and tell me that? Do you have any idea how serious this is?"

His hands search the clutter on her desk. He flings the couch pillows across the room, delving between the cushions. 

"What the hell are you looking for?" Max hisses.

 "I called my sister. She said she gave you one of my old cameras."

" _Why_ does that matter?"

"Because  _Dean_ ," Nathan retorts, words tumbling over words. 

"Slow down," Max marches to him, grabs him by both arms. "I'll help you, I swear. But you've got to tell me what's going on." Her hands move to his own, pull on them to get his attention. "You can't just show up at my dorm in the middle of the night and expect me to be chill!" 

He watches her for a long moment, gaze never leaving hers. His lips are bitten, blue eyes nearly black in the poor light. 

"The day before my brother died," Nathan says, "he took one of my cameras." 

"I remember," Max frowns. "But why--" 

Nathan's fingers tighten on her own, cutting her off. 

" _Why_  would he have done that?" he hisses. "He didn't give a shit about photography. Like at all. So why take my camera? My favorite one? He didn't ask me. He just took it. It's why I barged into his room the next morning." He swallows. "Remember? I went in there to bust his ass for stealing it--"

"You think--"

"There's something on there. There's  _got_  to be--"

"Nathan--"

"You have it, right?" He looks around wildly. "Is it here? Where is it?"

"I-In the drawer." Max stares after him as he rushes to the stack of drawers. "Nathan, everybody at the hospital is _freaking_ out. You almost gave Nell a heart attack. You have to go back, before they call the police."

He doesn't seem to hear her. He tugs open the bottom drawer, and there sits the camera Kristine gave her, a shadowy square of mechanical silver and black. 

Something inside Max snaps clean. She closes the distance between them, wrapping her fingers around both of his wrists and jerking them so that he's looking at her.

"What are you doing?" she hisses, for what feels like the hundredth time. "Are you even listening? Why are you doing this?"

He frowns. "I told you, I remembered--"

"Then you should have called me! You don't just sneak out! What if the judge finds out about this? The jury? Do you have any idea what this will do to your case if they find out?" Her whispers have taken on a hysterical edge, but she can't bring herself to be embarrassed. "Why are you doing this to yourself?"

"He took this camera for a  _reason_ ," Nathan shoots back. "I have to find out why. I fucking feel it, Max. Something's on there."

"And you could've found out what without leaving Dymphna's!" Max snaps. "Do you not realize how scared everyone is? I've never heard Nell sound like she did on the phone, I didn't think she  _could_  sound like that. And you don't even care. Everybody is working so hard to get you acquitted and this is how you repay them?"

Nathan tries to pull away, hands tightening around the camera. "Let me go, Max."

"Don't you give a shit about what happens to you?"

"Stop."

"Do you?"

" _No!_ "

Max releases him, the word falling heavily at their feet. She stares at him, mute.

He looks away from her, face burning. His expression drowns in a state of pain so raw Max's own heart splinters. 

"It doesn't  _matter_ ," he says tightly. "Didn't you listen to the trial today? I'm fucked up, Max. I don't deserve all of the shit that you or anybody else is doing for me. Do you understand? All I care about is seeing my father, Jefferson and every other major ring son-of-a-bitch get his. I have to do everything I fuckin' can to make sure that happens."

"Nathan."

"If we get my dad arrested, then, no, I don't care what happens to me. Honestly, I hope I rot in hell."

"Don't say that." Max's voice barely makes it out of her throat. 

He brushes past her, staring down at the camera in his hands. "I was  _stuck_  in that fuckin' ward, and I couldn't shake the fact there was something I never looked for on this old piece of shit. It was driving me crazy. So yeah, I left. But I had to make sure. I _need_ to."

"Alright," Max says quietly. "Okay." 

He turns towards her, mouth parting. But he won't look at her.

After a moment, he says nothing. He turns the camera on. 

It takes a moment to come to life, whirring mechanically. Max steps close, leans over his shoulder to watch the slowly illuminating screen. His hands are impatient against the buttons, still trembling, with cold and something else. 

He hits the key to bring up the gallery. He scrolls backwards, to the most recent photo.

And stares.

Max's eyebrows furrow. "What is that?"

It's been taken at night, or at least in dim light, and so it's hard to make out. Whoever took it did not possess a steady hand. The dominant colors are blurred brown and black. The little yellow numbers at the bottom of the screen indicate the time it was shot.

"Holy shit, this photo," Max says, "it was shot the night before Dean died."

"I knew it. I fucking knew it." Nathan pants. "He took this." 

"But what  _is_ that?"

Nathan raises the screen so that it is closer to their faces, and together they lean in. 

Nathan squints hard. "The...  _Tobanga?_ "

The second he says it, the image clicks in Max's brain. That mess of dark is most certainly brown dirt and grass, and that strange shadowy pillar in the center is about the Tobanga's size. 

"Great," Nathan snorts. "This doesn't help at all." 

"Nathan," Max turns, her eyes widening. 

"What?"

In a rush, she makes it across the room, to where the corkboard of clues sits behind the couch. She unpins a single, small piece of paper, with one little letter underlined on it. 

"When I was in Dean's room," she says, holding the note right up to his face, "I found this."

"T," Nathan reads. 

"T for Tobanga?" Max chews anxiously on her lip. "It's kind of a long shot, but--"

"Holy shit, Max, look!" 

She does. Nathan's finger is tapping rapidly against a part of the screen that is particularly hard to make out -- but it's the same colors as before, grass and dirt and mounds of earth. 

"It's all... dug up," she breathes.

Nathan looks at her. 

A long immeasurable silence passes, weighted with possibility and slightly shocked wonder. 

"Dean stole equipment from Samuel's shed," Max says. 

Nathan's eyes bulge wide. 

"What do you bet," she whispers, "that he took a shovel?"

Nathan stares at her.

There is one single suspended moment where the world waits, hangs on their next action. The universe peers close, waits and wonders. 

And then Nathan  _bolts._

"Nathan!" Max stumbles backwards, half-gasping, watching as he tears out through the door. 

She hears his hasty steps bounding down the hallway. The rear exit door slams. 

Max doesn't think. She doesn't wait. 

She races after him. 

And she runs right into a torrential rain storm. The wind has picked up, incensed, like it's punishing all those who dare stand outside. It hisses its viciousness against Max's pajama-clad frame, freezing the skin underneath. Within seconds, she's soaked, hair matted with water as the excess drops trickle down her neck and wrack her with shivers. She gasps from the cold, breath fogging in front of her. The thick, black clouds above have hidden the moon, eclipsed the lighthouse. It's easy to imagine that the whole world is right here, and everything else is darkness. 

She stumbles down the dormitory steps, arms hugged around herself to brace against the chill. 

She has to listen to find Nathan, skidding to a splashing stop over by Samuel's shed. 

He stares at the door, shoulders a hard line. He doesn't look surprised at all that she's come after him. 

"Be careful," Max says lowly, "there could be an alarm." 

"It's open," Nathan says.

"It's  _open?_ "

She doesn't have time to ponder how or why, before Nathan is pushing his way into the small, damp room. It stinks like the damp in here, mixed with grass and cleaning products, a scent that stings her nose. 

Nathan makes immediately for the two shovels that lean against the far wall. 

"Are you seriously about to do this?" Max splutters. "That photo could mean anything."

But she feels it, this dizzying wave of  _something_ pushing her forward. It is a familiar feeling, of being simultaneously watched and guided. She's felt it many times before, she's surprised she forgot its intensity. In the bathroom with Chloe, on the roof with Kate, in the Dark Room, atop a storm-battered hill with Chloe saying her final farewell. And she knows, without having to ask, that Nathan feels it right now too. Has felt it since yesterday. 

He turns and looks at her. His skin has gone waxy and clammy with rain, it makes his lips look redder. 

He extends the other shovel.

"Will you help me?" he asks. 

She breaths out, hard. 

"Of course."

The grass shifts like a tumultuous ocean beneath Max's shoes as she hurries after him, caught once more in a torrid wash of rain and wind. The Tobanga's murky outline rises to greet them, its arms outstretched, twisting up to the bottomless night sky. 

Nathan collapses to his knees in front of it, shovel blade sinking into the sopping soil. 

Lightning cracks harsh from above, making Max jump.

"He took that photo for a reason," Nathan says, either to himself or to her, she can't be sure. "He took it on  _my_  camera. He wasn't an idiot. Was never a goddamn idiot. He wanted me to see something." 

Max sinks her own spade in experimentally. It goes smooth, the earth giving way pleasantly, almost openly, as if to say  _go ahead, see what you can find._

"And what if he did?" Max says, having to raise her voice over the howl of the wind. "Are you sure you're ready?"

"Fuck no."

But he digs anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"It's _weird_ though, right?" Chloe had asked her, as they lounged on her living room couch. "Kind of messed up?"

"I think it's nice," Max replied. 

Chloe sat up, indignant. Her tears had dried by now, but over the course of the night she had succumbed a couple times to grief. A wave of celebrating Bongo's eight years of life would climax, only to be replaced by a choking stab of missing him. She had dug out a box of old photos, most of them of Bongo when he was just a fluffy white kitten. They had spent the evening thumbing through them, stomachs swollen with strawberry pie and their fingers sticky with glitter and glue. They were making a collage of him, something Chloe could look at when she missed him. 

"It's  _nice_  to be buried underground?" Chloe asked, eyebrows raised. "Dude, with all the worms and beetles and shit chewing on you?"

"Gross!" Max laughed, passing the chip bag back to Chloe. "I definitely don't want to be bug nosh. But... would you even care about that? I mean, you'd be... dead."

"Still," Chloe argued, "it's weird, ending up in the ground like that forever. God, I'm claustrophobic just thinking about it."

"If you don't want to be buried, I heard you can get put into fireworks," Max informed her. 

"Too hippy-ish," Chloe remarked. "It's cool in the moment, I guess, but what about _after_ the fireworks explode? You're, like, completely gone. Buh-bye, poor bastard. And your family and friends or whatever don't even have anywhere to come and visit you."

"If you were buried they would."

"Eh, I'm still icky about burial." 

"You can get your ashes mixed with seeds," Max said, "and you grow into a tree."

"Even  _more_  hippy-ish."

Max pointed a chip at her accusingly. "Seriously? You don't think that's a rad idea?"

"Uh, no. Sure, the tree grows, but then you have a bunch of dogs pissing on you all the time, or tweens scratching their initials into your bark, promising to be hella 'four eva'. So not cool."

And Max had laughed, the earlier misery of the day pushed aside. "You're impossible to please." She leaned back. "Bongo was happy to be buried, I'm telling you. It's special. 'Returning to where we came from' and all of that."

"What?"

"You know. We all come from nature. So getting buried is just going back to nature."

Chloe pondered that. "Like circle of life shit?"

"Kind of." Max looked out the window, where the sun was setting. The sky was beautiful, streaked with orange and pink. "Plus, burial is a nice way of getting to hold onto the person -- or cat -- that you love. They're always there."

Chloe hummed. "You bury the things you want to protect, huh?"

"Like any decent pirate," Max grinned. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Max's hands keep slipping against the shovel handle. She swears, tightening her grip, pushing the spade deep into the earth. It's getting less co-operative the further they go down, the walls of the hole spilling inward and covering her feet. She's drenched in a potent mixture of sweat and rain, and she's filthy, somehow all of her has become covered in dirt. But she doesn't stop. The tingling, electric feeling, that sensation they are both on the precipice of something unimaginable, is getting stronger by the second.

Ten or fifteen minutes later, Max can't be sure, Nathan's shovel clashes off something. 

He grunts, and drops to his knees heavily, shovel discarded.

"This is it," he hisses, "there's something here."

"Oh my God," Max pants, joining him. "No way."

"I've been such an idiot," Nathan says, "the Tobanga was his favorite place on his campus. If he wanted something to be found, he'd put it here."

He sinks his hands into the soil, rummages around deep. Max does the same, sifting through nothing but ice-cold dirt. 

And then, Nathan's body jump-starts, revs up with adrenaline.

"I got something." 

A fork of lightning strikes the sky. Max drags the back of her hand across her forehead, her heart beatless. 

Nathan heaves something out of the ground. 

He drops it, in front of their knees with a rattling thud.

"What," Max says, at the exact same time Nathan breathes, " _Max_ ".

It's a box. A small, steel garden storage box, to be exact. Like the ones Samuel keeps in his shed. But this one is old, damaged, and when Nathan pokes at it, something -- or several somethings -- shift around inside. 

Max's blood is rushing in her ears, so loud she swears he must be able to hear it too. 

"Should we open it?" she whispers. 

"Didn't dig a crater to not," Nathan answers, but he sounds reluctant. Afraid. 

Max's hand curls around his elbow. "You were right," she says, "Dean did want... _somebody_ to find this. Whatever it is."

Nathan inhales sharply, pauses for a moment, and then pushes the lid up and off. 

Max almost screams.

The world around them shifts. It spins in loops. 

It is inexplicable. 

Max leans in. Nathan recoils. 

"Holy shit," Max gasps, dumbfounded. Her heart pounds outside of her body. " _That's_..." 

"K-Ketamine," Nathan finishes.

 _Lots_  of ketamine. Bottle upon bottle, blue-capped and clear glass. They clink and roll against each other, silently lethal. Max's hand flies to her throat out of memory, to the spot she had felt the sickening sting of Jefferson's needle. 

She thinks she's going to be sick.

Nathan has gone equally green. He drops the box with a thud, his hands shaking bad. 

"This looks like.... all of the ketamine that Dean bought, right before he died," she pants. "Remember? He bought every bottle Frank had." 

Max reaches in, searches experimentally.

At the bottom of the box, hidden by the bottles, she finds a small, smooth object, so small she almost missed it. 

She takes it out, presents it to Nathan in the wet palm of her hand.

If he hadn't been kneeling, Nathan looks like his knees would have given out.

Max swallows. "It's a USB."

Nathan opens his mouth, but the only thing that comes out is a choked exhale and a half-voiced syllable. 

"We should put it in my computer."

Another roll of thunder, and it acts like a motivating shove against Nathan's back.

He nods jerkily. "Let's go."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He takes the towel this time, removes his muddy shoes and his jacket. He towels his hair off and then drapes it around his shoulders, to soak up excess water. He sits on Max's bed, against the wall, silent and staring wordlessly into space. The box of ketamine sits on the couch, and every now and then, Nathan will look at it and a shiver will viscerally shoot through him. 

By the time she joins him, carrying her laptop in shaking hands, he looks as though he's trying not to cry. Max is thrumming with adrenaline, with hot coursing shock. 

"I don't have to..." she starts, but they both know that's stupid. They didn't just go through all of that to ignore this. 

"Do it," Nathan says. 

Max slots the device into the side of her laptop. 

The silence as it loads is unbearable. 

When it finally installs, she is taken instantly to a single file.

Her fingertips brush over the keypad, hesitating.

Nathan nods.

She double-clicks, and they're in.

And they are _in._  

"No _way._ "

Photos, documents.  _Hundreds_ of them.  The file just keeps throwing them up, one thumbnail after the other, so swiftly that every one seems to be stumbling over one another, jumping with the force of this digital wave. Max scrolls, and keeps scrolling, her eyes growing wider and wider by the second.

"These photos," she says, hovering over an endless line of image thumbnails, "is that the Dark Room?"

"It-It can't be," Nathan says shakily. "Look at the dates. My dad hadn't built the bunker then."

"But this is definitely Jefferson's style. Those lights? That... sterile backdrop?"

She scrolls all the way down. There are five video files. 

One of them is titled: _PLEASE WATCH._

Max glances at Nathan for encouragement. Her finger is shaking over the keypad, overwhelmed by the amount of information. 

"Go on," Nathan says. 

She clicks it twice. It buffers.

The world seems to buffer, too. Suspended again. On hold for them. 

The video begins like this: with a weary, exhausted sigh, a creaking chair, and a familiar young man. His face is etched with misery, his unhealthily-thin figure slumped in front of a laptop webcam. 

Nathan inhales so violently that he chokes. 

Dean Prescott can barely hold his head up to meet the eye of the camera. He is clearly high, and seriously so, his pupils blown and glassy, his skin blotchy where he seems to have rubbed it too hard. He is the sloppier twin of the golden-tanned, pearly-grinning boy Max has come to know from photographs. He is his ghost. He is the darkest parts of his soul, disembodied. 

"F-Fuck," Nathan pants.

"I can turn it off," Max blurts. Her eyes are prickling with tears already. 

"No," he shakes his head, fighting to speak clearly over his ragged inhales. "No. I wanna fucking hear what he has to say."

Dean speaks. His voice sounds like it's been dragged over jagged glass.

"My name is Dean P-Prescott. The date is... April 27th, 2010. And I'm making this video because I don't know what the hell to do."

It seems to be daylight behind him, but the curtains are drawn and the light is saturated, edging towards evening.

This is the night before his death. 

"I can't go to the c-cops because too many of them are working for my father. I can't even go to state police. I'm making this video so I can tell my story, I want this to end up in the hands of someone who can use it." 

Max takes Nathan's hand and he holds on for dear life, twisting his fingers in hers like they are the only things rooting him to this earth. 

"In November of 2009," Dean goes on, "my father, Sean Prescott, told me our family's company was expanding. He wanted to branch into - into..." he pauses, coughs wetly. "Medicine. Research medicine. My father told me that his scientists had found a possible t-treatment for several incurable diseases. The company was to pioneer important m-medical trials that had an almost certain chance of working."

"I remember that," Nathan says bitterly. "Prescott Care. But it never happened, my dad shelved it out of nowhere."

Dean's head keeps lolling forward. He is quiet for a moment, blinking slowly. "My father was not a stranger to taking unusual paths for the sake of business. He told me the scientists were confident that the illegal drug, ketamine, would prove beneficial to the medical trials. But they could not under law gain access to it. The thing was, my father explained that Prescott Care's new initiative was to be kept secret, so as to not encourage competition from rivals."

"That's horseshit," Nathan snaps. "There's no  _way_  he believed that."

Dean swallows, breaks eye contact with the camera. "It sounds stupid, but he talked me into it. I wanted," he pauses again, "would have wanted to do everything I could back then, to make him happy. Make him proud. Because when he wasn't proud or happy, he was..."

Nathan flinches. 

"Anyway," Dean goes on, "I agreed to buy ketamine from a local dealer on a frequent basis. I would give it to my father, who would pass it on to the trials.  _He_  gave me the money, it never came from my pocket." Dean looks down, shame writ in every line of him. "I... really thought I was helping. He would show me reports from the scientists, praising their success. And he was proud of me. You get... addicted to that pride."

Dean leans backwards. His eyes close and he is momentarily gripped by a powerful silent emotion that trembles his lower lip.

"After a while," he continues, "I... started to buy other things. Out of my pocket, for myself."

"Dean," Nathan murmurs.

"I don't know why I started. Does anyone? It just -- maybe it was arrogance. I told myself it was experimentation, it was me being my age. I was too smart to wind up dependent. That wouldn't happen to me. I knew the risks and I convinced myself I would be okay. I told myself I didn't underestimate something like that. I wasn't like other people." 

One side of his mouth lifts, a mocking imitation of a smile. "As you can see, I was wrong."

Nathan's head drops heavily into his hands. A huff of something, a sigh, a devastated breath, pushes from between his fingers.

"My father wasn't happy. But as long as I was supplying Prescott Care, he made no effort to stop me."

" _Motherfucker_ ," Nathan grits out, muffled but poisonous. 

"And maybe it's not his fault. I know... the responsibility of me ending up a drug addict is mine. And I was good at hiding it, from those around me. Really good."

Tears slip freely down Max's cheeks, stinging hot against the numb cold. 

"This month," Dean says, but he stops, a great wash of anger and pain rising behind his eyes. His fist collides with the desk under him. "Goddamn it. I was so  _stupid_."

Nathan is peering at the screen now through his fingers, like he's watching a horror movie unfold. And in a way, he is. But it's _real_. It's real, it's real, it's real, and it claws at the walls of Max's chest.

"This month," Dean tries again, "I found out the truth. I should've seen it coming a long time ago, but my brain was... is... drowned, in other things. Anyway. I went to my father's office, without an appointment for the first time in... well, ever. And I wanted to speak to the people behind Prescott Care, since my father wasn't listening to me. I w-was trying to  _stop_ , having to go back to a dealer when you're trying to get clean is torture. And I wanted them to find somebody else. I wanted -- I  _want_  to get clean."

"When I got there, my father was in some meeting. So I went to into his office, to see if I could find contact numbers or - or anything for these people." He is quiet, for so long Max worries he won't speak again. When he does, his eyes have darkened, hollowed out. "You know what I found?  _Nothing_."

"No numbers, no addresses, no files. Prescott Care had never  _existed_. I - I was losing it. I was crashing around in there, searching the drawers, trying to find something to prove I wasn't crazy. And I did find something. A lot of things."

"Jesus fucking Christ," Nathan says brokenly.

"I wasn't supplying medical trials," Dean chokes. "I was supplying -- supplying... Jesus Christ." His hands rake through his hair. "I was supplying something I didn't think my father was capable of. I was supplying a monster. A sick, twisted  _ring_  of monsters."

"I found everything," Dean murmurs. "E-mails from protected servers, letters, paper trails dating right back to November, bank statements from my father to Mark Jefferson." He swallows. "Copies of... pictures. Video recordings of meetings between my father and these people." Dean leans in, his wet eye contact direct for the first time. "Everything I found, I uploaded onto this USB."

The words don't absorb into Max's brain at first. They hover in front of her, suspended by shock. She is no longer in her dorm room. She is momentarily frozen in time, in a unknowable space. Heat prickles up her spine and slams her heart to a faster beat. 

She replays Dean's words in her head, and their unbelievable meaning, until finally, they sink deeply in.

She turns to Nathan, wide-eyed.

"Nathan," she breathes, "we got him."

"I  _swear_  I didn't know," Dean's voice is cracking now, shredding at the already frayed edges. "I swear."

Nathan is breathing heavily, close to hyperventilating. Max twists their fingers harder and holds on for dear life, because she honestly feels like they're about to fall through the floor.

"Right now," Dean goes on, "my father doesn't know that I know. I cleaned up his office, made sure it looked like I was never there." He exhales hard. "Yesterday, my father asked for more ketamine. He said the trials were really making progress." His mouth twists bitterly.

A herd is stampeding in Max's chest. Her stomach churns and somersaults. 

Dean looks down at his hands. Then back up, to the camera. Tears slide down his cheeks, but he seems oblivious to them. 

"I went to the dealer and I bought up all the ketamine. All of it. I'm sure my father will find another supplier but, for a while anyway, he won't be able to supply his sick new business."

"He didn't," Nathan is whispering, over and over like a mantra, "he didn't know. He had no idea--"

"Tonight," Dean says, "I'm putting it all in the ground, with this USB, in the safest spot on Blackwell campus, until I figure out what the hell to do. Until I find someone who can help me." He drags his fingers over his wet cheeks, swallowing thickly. "I'll take a photo, maybe write a note too, to remember exactly where. My brain, it's... I forget things now. Easily. So I have to leave these clues. I can't risk hiding it all in my room, or anywhere in my house, Blackwell, even this fucking town. It'll be safe in the ground."

There is a distant thud from somewhere outside Dean's room, in the hall. It startles him, pushes him to talk faster.

"Tomorrow morning," he says hastily, "I'm leaving. I'm checking myself into rehab and I'm getting clean. I'm done with this shit. And when I get clean, then I dig all of this up and I can tell someone about my father. I'll be sober and he won't be able to undermine my word. I'll tell them exactly what he's been doing."

A choking swell rises in Max's throat. She covers it with her hand, tries to push it down.

He would have gone to rehab. He had a plan. 

He was so, so close.

"To my family," Dean says, softly, painfully. "Kris, Nate, little Harry. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I haven't been there for you guys lately, I've not been myself. I've been the very worst First Mustakeeter." He smiles then, and it's real, it's so real and hopeful. "But after I fix this, it'll be different. I'll never leave you guys again. You'll -- You'll be proud of me."

Footsteps, in the hallway. Dean glances anxiously towards the door, reaches for the webcam.

Nathan reaches forward, fingers twitching, like he wants to grasp through the screen.

"I have to go," Dean whispers. "Hopefully, I'll be alright." 

He shuts off the webcam. The video ends. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They've watch the video a few more times. They watch the videos of Sean's meetings with the other ring members, listen to the recordings of his phone conversations with Mark Jefferson. They trawl through everything Dean uploaded. 

Sean's records are professional, slick, secretive. Clearly never meant to leave his constantly guarded office. But they have them, now. They have them and this is all going to stop.

The storm outside is getting worse, banging on the windows, trying to get in. She contemplates letting it. For the sake of fresh air, because the atmosphere in here now is verging on unbreathable. The air hums with sensations that scrape beneath her skin. 

Max knows Nathan has to get back. He should've already left. But she can't make herself move him, or suggest it. His back is slouched against the bed, he is red-eyed and mute. He needs more than a minute. He needs more time than last year's Max could ever dredge up with one extend of her hand.

She can't begin to imagine what is racing through his mind. 

As much as the USB gives them, it comes at a price. The price of seeing your loved one again, for a fleeting moment, and not being able to save them. 

"He tried to stop it," Max says quietly. "The second he found out about Prescott Care, he tried to stop it. He had a plan."

"More than I ever did," Nathan says gruffly. "I knew about it. I still did my part."

"You were manipulated."

"Doesn't matter. None of that matters. Fuckin' boo-hoo, I have a broken brain." He shakes his head. "I still could've stopped it. I know what right and wrong is."

"Your father controls this town, the police," Max argues, "if you tried to do anything, who knows what would have happened to you--" 

"But I still could have  _tried._ " Nathan meets her gaze reluctantly. "Dean knew what he was going up against and he was ready to do it anyway. I'm nothing but a fucking coward. Always have been. Doing what other people tell me to do, just to survive. Because I could never survive this world on my own." 

Max watches him intently, tries to understand every ebb and flow of his thoughts.

"I'm sorry I blew up at you earlier," he says. 

"It's okay."

His eyes flick across her face. "You don't like the fact I don't give a shit, do you?" he asks. "That I'd walk into jail right now."

"I want you to stop acting like you're some cold-hearted villain." 

"Look, you've done a shitload to help me," Nathan says. "I'll never be able to tell you how much that means. But, for real Max? I honestly care more about everything you found out about my father. I'm ready to do everything to help you put that bastard away. But don't expect me to care about what happens to me."

"But Nathan--"

"No. Listen." He sighs, deep and weary. "I've spent my whole fuckin' life putting shit on other people. Blaming the shit I do on what's wrong with me. Now I have a chance to take responsibility for everyone I hurt."

The air is a little unbreathable. Max feels it tingle and twitch with what feels like finality. The finality of a made-up mind.

"Chloe isn't here because of me," he says. "Tell me everything you want about my childhood, my tremors and my fuckin' bio-chemistry-whatever, but at the end of the day, I took someone out of the world. I  _want_  to go wherever they send me. I'll stay there forever if they want. Better off that way."

"You're better off in a cell for the rest of your life?" Max stares.

"Better off not living in a world that ain't meant for me."

"Nathan, you're _already_  taking responsibility," Max says, and she's frowning now, the lines of it etched on her face. "You're going to make sure victims like Kate never have to worry about your father, Jefferson or their associates hurting them or anybody else again. You might not have stopped it then, but the point is you're stopping it _now_. That means something!"

"There you go," Nathan sighs, "trying to save me again. Sure, I'm helping. Doesn't erase what I did in the first place."

"It's not saving you. It's not even sympathy. It's telling you that you got a awful fucking hand in life. You shot Chloe, but not because you were overwhelmed with this crazy desire to do it. You want to accept responsibility? Then accept that the circumstances of your life have responsibility, too."

"But--"

"If you spend the rest of your life seeing yourself as some unforgivably messed-up person, then that's all you'll be. That's what you'll really turn into, and there'll be no hope for you at all." 

" _Peace?_ " Nathan parrots. "I shouldn't  _get_  peace." He searches her face for a long time. "Chloe was your best friend. And up there on the stand, everything you said -- you were on my side. Why?" 

"It's complicated."

"No shit." He tips his head back, rests it against the bed. "There's more to it. And you're holding back."

Irritation, and tiredness, coil in her gut. "Maybe I know more about what happened than you. Maybe all of this crap isn't so black-and-white." 

"The hell does that mean?"

The storm roars. It's four fifteen. He needs to go. 

But when will this opportunity come again?

"I have to tell you something," Max blurts.

"What?"

"It's pretty heavy."

"After tonight, I think I can take it," Nathan frowns. Then, softer, "Max, what's going on?"

The breath she takes in clings to her throat, meeting the first words as they swell and tumble out.

And Max talks until time stops. Until her mind stops. Until some other entity takes the wheel and turns her brain on auto-pilot. Her mouth never shuts, the words pour out, her need to draw breath nothing but an interference. 

She's well-vesered by now in how to appropriately tell her story. What structure to use, how to properly order every event, what to describe and what to not touch with a ten-foot pole. But though she's told it a couple times now, and thought it always feels like a thousand pounds of vicious weight being lifted from her shoulders, each word still churns her stomach and hurts. Stings her throat, tries to make her swallow certain words back down. Her eyes grow wet quickly, spilling over as her voice cracks with the harsh reminder that all of this was  _real_ , that she still had to go through it bit by brutal bit, even if this timeline doesn't want to acknowledge it. 

Nathan's expression is a myriad. He used to be blank as a canvas, but the growth and healing of his time in the hospital has transformed him viscerally. He shows his emotions openly, whether he means to or not. Max talks and watches as his eyes brim with a thousand potent emotions, all of them blending into one. Horror, terror, shock, disbelief. He conveys them all. He keeps trying to interrupt, to form any word at all, but each time he stops short. Seemingly unable to find his voice at all.

When she finally finishes, the silence hangs and hangs. It envelops them both, pounds in her blood.

Max, more awake than she's ever been in her entire life, chews hard on her lower lip as her lungs struggle to fill back up. 

She's trying to think of what to say next, when Nathan does it for her. Takes the silence in his hands and breaks it, his voice shaky and soft.

"I... I died?"

She nods. "Jefferson--"

"No." He shakes his head quickly. "Jesus, I don't want to know, I just..."

He breaks off. Silence comes, filling the room like rising water.

It's a while before either of them speak again. Nathan raises his head slowly and meets her gaze, his glassy eyes mirroring her own.

"Max. I'm -- I'm so fucking sorry." 

She lifts one shoulder. "It wasn't completely awful. I... got to know my best friend again, and..." She sniffs, pain making itself known hot in the spaces between her ribs. "It was worth it. All of it. It mattered, and, I'd go through all of that crap again if it meant getting to see Chloe be so happy." 

He's quiet for a moment, studying her closely.

"You and Chloe," he says, "you guys were...?"

She presses her lips together. "I think we could've been. A-And we were. For a few awesome, irreplaceable days, we were." 

He looks like he wants to smile, but the stress of tonight keeps it down. "That's really cool," he tells her. His expression suddenly steels. "But I'm sorry. For... that other me."

"It's okay."

"It's not." He wipes at his eyes with his sleeve. "I took her away from you. That's... That's fucked." 

"It was the way it had to be," Max winces. "For some reason. I'll never know the hell why, but... it is what it is." 

"If Chloe was supposed to die, doesn't that mean..."

"You were 'supposed' to shoot her?" Max says, with air-quotes. "That's the way the timeline wanted it, yeah."

Nathan sighs hard, his face screwing up in agony. "All of this shit was supposed to happen? I was  _supposed_  to take someone's life?"

"Samuel told me this thing about fate and destiny--"

"The _janitor?_ "

"He made me think that maybe Chloe's destiny wasn't that she had to _die,_ but instead that she would be part of something bigger. She's influenced so much around here, and... I still feel her around. Her dying like that, it, it can't be all there is." 

Nathan is quiet. The rain is easing off, pattering gently now against the window glass.

When she turns her head to him, he is a little blurred through her streaming eyes.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I should have done more to help you. But by the time we realized what was really going on, i-it was too late, and..."

"Hey." Nathan touches her wrist gingerly. "Drop that shit. You've got nothing to apologize for.  _I_  fuckin' apologize for that guy, that... other me. His whole life was on fire."

"That's part of why I came to visit you last year," Max says. "Knowing you were in as much pain, I wanted to make sure something like that never happened again."

"And now there's another storm coming?"

Max bites her lip. Nods.

"And it's going to wipe out my family?"

"I don't know, but Dean seems to think so. And I trust him," she says quickly. "The settlers blame your father for every bad thing that's ever happened to Arcadia."

Nathan exhales hard. "This is... I don't even fucking know." He looks at her pleadingly, eyes swimming with fresh tears. "Harry, Kristine, they don't deserve that shit! They've done nothing wrong their whole lives."

"I know."

"How do we stop it?" he rasps. "What do we do? I can't let something happen to Kris and Harry. I can't."

"We show Arcadia's over-protectors that we can actually put a stop to Sean Prescott ourselves, without their interference." Max takes the USB, presses it into his palm. "And thanks to your brother, we have hope. We have so much of it."

Nathan runs the pads of his fingers across it. "You said," he mutters, "that you could time-travel through photos."

"My powers are gone. I don't have them anymore."

"Why?"

Max half-smiles. "Another question, for the big-ass list I've been trying to answer." 

She observes him looking, holding the USB like something holy. And in a way it is, holding everything they could ever possibly need to latch the handcuffs on Sean Prescott and his seedy circle. But it's more than that, too. Nathan had got to see his brother again. Preserved in time, if only for a few minutes. 

"It doesn't help as much as you think," Max says softly. "To travel back and see somebody again. I tried to help Chloe's dad and turned _everything_ to shit."

"And in that timeline," Nathan says, "you and me were... friends?"

"Yes. I think so." 

"So I was better. I was... healthy."

"It would've been cool, to find out why."

"Yeah."

Max picks at the hem of her top. "The you that ended up being... being _killed_ ," she says, "it's not going to happen in this timeline. I won't let a storm, or - or whatever else, lay a hand on you or your brother and sister." 

"Easier said than done," Nathan says, but he smiles genuinely for the first time since he arrived. 

He sighs. He presses the USB against his forehead, squeezes his eyes shut.

"I was pissed at him, for so fucking long. For leaving us. And now it turns out the bastard was planning on getting help."

"I think he wanted you to know that." 

"Yeah." Nathan nods. "It's... It's a hell of a lot to take in, everything you said. But if he's really still around, that's... cool."

Max smiles. "It is."

"He always was overprotective," he quips, and Max chuckles. 

He turns and looks at her, soft. 

"Thanks for telling me," he says.

"Thanks for believing me."

Nathan slips the USB into his pocket. He gets to his feet, glances down at Max. Extends his hand.

She takes it, and he pulls her to her feet. His face is so close, his eyes full of something indecipherable as they drift over her own. He twists their fingers, and smiles.

It would be so easy, to lean in. To give in to what her brain, her heart, is screaming at her to do. 

But there'll be time for all that. Max will make sure of it. 

"We... have to get you back to the hospital," Max says.

He pulls back, lips twitching into a teasing smile. "You got a skateboard? Because I nearly broke both legs running here." 

Max laughs.

"Oh, I can do better than a skateboard." 

 

* * *

 

 

 

To Warren's credit, he only stares at Nathan for one whole minute. 

Nathan shifts, clearly uncomfortable. He nudges Max. "Is he... chill?"

"Give him a second," Max returns.

A second passes. Then another, and another after that.

Finally Warren blinks hard, as if rousing from a surreal dream. He's in his rumpled pajamas, eyes half-lidded, his brain probably still tucked up in bed. 

"I'm so sorry," Max says quickly, "I know it's, like, unforgivably late. But, um, the thing is... we need a ride."

Warren's eyebrows arch. He looks between them, his eyes growing slowly wider.

"Shouldn't you," he says to Nathan. He breaks off, dumbfounded, and seconds later tries again. "Shouldn't you be in the hospital?"

"Yeah," Nathan says. 

Warren's gaze flicks to Max, stunned. 

"Why are you both wet and covered in dirt?"

"Long story short," she says hastily, "Sean Prescott is toast. Nathan found some  _serious_  evidence for us."

"...In your room?"

She flushes. "No! Well, uh, sort of. I said it was a long story." She bites her lip. "Could you drive us to St. Dymphna's?  _Please?_ I swear, I'll buy you Two Whales for two whole months."

He narrows his eyes. 

"But we're graduating in a couple weeks."

"Then you'll get Two Whales every single day from now until then."

Warren looks between them. Pauses.

Max holds her breath. 

"Deal."

He bustles back into his room and grabs his keys. 

"Seriously? Warren, _thank you_. You're way too cool for me to even comprehend," Max gushes. 

"I know." He yawns, shuts his door, and throws his hand out to Nathan. "I'm Warren, by the way." His grin widens. "I have heard a _lot_ about you."

Max colors a violent shade of red and considers taking back everything she just said. 

"Uh, Nathan." Nathan says awkwardly. "You too." 

"Never pegged you for a Baker fan," Warren remarks.

"What?"

"Guys!" Max hisses. "Can we please go before the whole dorm wakes up?"

The good thing about racing to Dymphna's in the middle of the night is that the roads are deserted. Warren is on the road to the hospital much faster than he usually would be, and in the backseat Nathan has visibly relaxed, picking at the fraying upholstery with his fingernail.

Max can't help it, she keeps turning around to check on him. He meets her gaze every time, smiles, taps the USB in his pocket. 

Max turns to Warren. "How are you not freaking out right now?" she asks, bemused.

"Because I'm best friends with Max Caulfield," he retorts. "You learn to stop asking questions." 

She laughs, suddenly giddy with the reality of what they've found and the fact that everything is looking up. For the first time, everything is actually looking up. 

"Either that or sleep-deprivation," Warren adds. 

"Or Red Bull withdrawal."

"Oh, I'm strictly a Monster man now. More sugar."

"How are you still alive?"

Nathan leans forward. "Yo, Warren? I really appreciate this, bro."

Out of the corner of his eye, Warren shoots Max a look that says  _Nathan Prescott just called me bro._

"Don't mention it," Warren returns breezily. "And, uh, hey... it's super rad that you're healthy now, dude."

"I think I pushed you into a locker once," Nathan winces, his expression a mix of shame and anxiety. "I'm fucking sorry about that."

Warren blinks at him in the rear-view, startled. "Hey, it's fine. Really. All in the past." He grins at Max. "Literally, right?"

Nathan looks between them. "You know about the time-travel?"

" _You_ do?"

The conversation shifts from Max's powers to the timelines of past, to the storm. Warren peers worriedly out through the windscreen, where his wipers are working hard to toss the pounding rain of the glass. She does, too. This weather certainly feels telling of something bigger to come.

Her hair stands up on end, and she pushes the thought to the back of her brain.

 _We have time_ , she tells herself. _It'll be alright._  

 The gates of the hospital are open, most of the lights on. Warren pulls up at the entrance, turns off the ignition. 

"Thank you," Max tells him, squeezing his wrist. "I'll only be a second."

"Longer than that, if Carmin's there," Nathan groans.

"She is," Max says.

Warren makes a face. "Shit. Good luck." 

When they clamber out of the car, Nathan comes to her side and holds his jacket above them, a makeshift umbrella.

"Nathan, you'll freeze--"

"Don't worry about it." He nods towards the side of the building. "We can get in the way I got out. Come on."

She huddles close to him as they go, their shoes splashing on the syrupy gravel. "For the record," she says, "how _did_ you get out? Disguise yourself as an orderly? Hide in the laundry?"

He snorts. "You watch too much TV."

"But...?"

He chuckles. "Fire escape. I, uh, 'borrowed' the keys from behind the desk when the nurses were changing shift. You gotta be real fuckin' quick."

The fire escape in question is located at the side, just where the looming fence rises up to block them from the gardens. Max can see a couple of orderlies roaming about with flashlights, combing the bushes, the flowerbeds. 

"In here," Nathan whispers. He reaches into his pocket and grabs a key, shoving it into the nearest door lock. It clicks and the door swings open, leading to a set of steep, twisting stairs. 

When they get to the ward, all of the lights are on, the bright-white blinding in so much artificial gleam. 

Nell is behind the desk, her hair bunched in both hands. 

She doesn't see them, but rather hears them -- the wet slap of their shoes, the jangle of the keys in Nathan's hand.

When she looks up, her face runs white.

Nathan swallows. "Hey."

Nell stares for one long moment, and then, she's practically vaulting the desk to get to him. 

"YOU MOTHERFUCKER!"

In seconds, she crashes into him with an audible thump. Her arms wrap around him with crushing force.

"Jesus Christ!" Nathan wheezes, struggling to break free. "Let go!"

"Do you have _any idea_ what was going through my head?" Nell pulls back from him but keeps a hard grip on his shoulders. "I thought you were in a ditch somewhere! You lousy, crappy, absolute piece of--"

"What's going on out here?" Carmin comes hurrying out from the nurse's back room. She looks weary, bags under her eyes, her appearance startlingly unkempt. When she spots Nathan, she stops dead.

"Carmin," Max starts, "we found--"

" _You!_ What the hell do you think you're doing?" Carmin storms over, eyes wild with outrage. Nathan actually takes a step backwards. "This was idiotic even for you! I was seconds away from calling the cops! Your case, the whole trial, all of it would've gone to shit. Because--"

"I wouldn't worry about the trial," Nathan interrupts. He reaches into his pocket and holds out the USB. It gleams in the light. 

Carmin stares at it for a beat, unimpressed. "What the hell is that?" 

"Why I left," Nathan says. "Which, by the way, was uncool. And--"

" _Uncool?_ " Nell says hysterically. 

"Alright, shit. It was fucked. I'm sorry--" 

Nell shakes her head, frowning. "'Sorry' doesn't take away the grey hair I grew tonight, Chuckles--" 

Max hooks Carmin's gaze, raising her voice. "It's Dean."

Silence. Carmin drags her eyes reluctantly from Nathan to Max, as if only noticing her for the first time.

"Excuse me?"

"Why are you guys all muddy?" Nell asks. 

Nathan presses the USB into Carmin's palm. "It's big," he says. 

"What _is_ this?"

"Everything you could've ever dreamed of," Max says excitedly. "Carmin, we got him. Dean left behind video, documents, everything that connects Sean Prescott to the Dark Room." 

Carmin stares at them hard. "If this is a joke--"

"It's not." Nathan says, and the pain of tonight rises to the surface, blankets his face. "He tried to stop it, Carmin." 

"Sean lied to him," Max explains, watching as the color drains faster and faster from Carmin's face. "He told him there were medical trials. Dean was trying to make him proud. And he was trying to get clean. He was collecting evidence, planning to use it when he was sober."

Nell's eyes widen. She looks at Carmin, uncharacteristically speechless for a second. "I think the kids are telling the truth."

"The ketamine is in my dorm," Max says. "I can give it to you tomorrow morning. And, along with everything on that USB, you can make sure Sean Prescott never sees the light of day again."

Carmin looks as though she wants to pinch herself. She turns the USB over in her hands, and it's closest Max has ever seen the perpetually stoic woman come close to genuine, undiluted emotion.

Nathan makes Carmin look at him. "Are we ready?" he asks her.

Her inhale is shaky, but strong. 

When she looks up, the determination in her eyes is _blazing_.

"Yes," she says. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the evidence they found is ~so convenient~ but after all that's happened, Max deserves some good fortune! ;)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brought to you by the vast amounts of tea and chocolate I consumed to write it. Chapter 25 is going to be posted at the same time as the epilogue, which is Chapter 26, so make sure you don't accidentally skip one. Hope to have them up very soon, when college stops destroying my soul. 
> 
> Thank you guys as always for the amazing feedback, you're all sublimely wonderful and I bow to you. 
> 
> One chapter, and an epilogue, left!

 

  
  
Max lies restlessly awake until dawn. She is horizontal on her couch, not her bed, staring out through the chink in the blinds as the saturated light seeping across the windowsill changes from rich, midnight blue to soft pink, quicker than she's ever witnessed a sunrise before. The horizon burns with renewed promise and, in the center of it all, peering up over the furthest line, rises the lighthouse. If she stares at it hard enough, for long enough, she gets a bizarre plunging sensation in her stomach. She puts it down to the jittery reality of what they uncovered tonight. Of what it  _means_. 

Her eyes ache with the desire to sleep but she fights it, wanting to prolong this moment for as long as possible. In this light, in this quiet silence, she feels safe. She feels as though she's hovering in the middle of the universe. 

But she can't fight it forever. Insomnia-prone or not, her brain cannot resist the pull of sleep when it finally comes. Just as the sun begins to rise fully, her eyes slip shut. 

When she comes awake, languidly and blearily, it's seven fifty. There is a dry, bad taste in her mouth and her hair is a bird's nest. Her parents will be picking her up in ten minutes. 

Max springs to her feet, realizing with some horror she's caked in now firmly dried mud, last night's pajamas practically turned to cement with it. It's everywhere, plastered to her skin, dusty in the ends of her hair, embedded deep under her fingernails. A glance at herself in the mirror makes her flinch. Heart picking up its groggy pace, she grabs her shower things once more and races down the hall. There's only one unoccupied shower stall, and apologetically she jostles past a startled Alyssa to dive inside.

"Sorry!" she hisses. "Emergency!"

"Why the hell are you covered in dirt?"

Turning on the hot spray, Max exhales an awkward laugh. "It's a long story. I--"

"You know what, keep me in suspense." Alyssa sounds amused, dropping her own supplies onto the nearest counter. 

Max shampoos and conditions fiercely, scrubbing the dirt off until her skin is tender and red. She shuts the water off, throws a towel around herself in lieu of the filthy pajamas and steps out, steam swirling around her. 

Alyssa leans against the sink, face soft with sleep. "Are you okay, for real Max? You look a little... high." 

"Definitely not high. And I'd totally tell you, but my parents will be here in like sixty seconds." 

"I'll hold you to it, then." 

"You won't have to," Max says, making for the door. Under her breath, she sighs out a small, "Everybody's going to find out the truth today."

Back in her room, she throws on the funeral-turned-courthouse dress, blasts a hair-dryer on full-temperature and drags a brush through her hair until it's loose of knots. When the knock comes on her door, she definitely looks and feels a lot less ragged. But the overwhelming memories of last night can't be scrubbed from her eyes. If her mom notices the redness rimming her eyes, or the slackness of her eyelids, Max isn't going to be surprised.  

She does notice. 

"Max," her mom stares at her for a moment, once the door is opened. "Sweetheart. You're flushed." 

"I just woke up," she says quickly. "And showered. Are you guys ready?"

"In a hurry to get to court?" Her dad raises both eyebrows. 

"No, just," Max trails off. Her bones are shivering somehow, trying to get her to move. To get to court, to end this. "No use waiting around."

She slips out into the hall, her parents falling into slightly bemused step with her.

Her dad jangles the keys next to her ear. "Wanna drive?"

"Sure," she answers. When she glances back at him, he has a weird smile on his face. "What?" she frowns.

He doesn't answer. But she learns exactly _what_  once they get down to the parking lot. 

Her parents drift silently over to a shiny, pretty impossibility. Max stares after them, the line between her brows deepening.

"That's not our car," she points out. "Are you guys having a Senior moment already?" 

"No," her dad says cryptically. 

Max looks between them.

"Where's... our car?"

"Back at the hotel," her mother says. 

Her dad stops at the driver's side of the unfamiliar vehicle. He extends his palm flat, the keys gleaming beneath the early morning light.

"Well?" He's smirking. 

Max's eyes bulge from their sockets. 

"Are you kidding?" she asks softly. 

"Picked it up yesterday," says her dad, tugging on his beard the way he always does when he's excited. "Figured you deserved a graduation present, kiddo."

Max shakes her head wildly, feeling as though she is caught in a fever dream. The car is a gorgeous, glimmering sea blue. A Corsa, she thinks. Her vision tunnels, all she can see is every gleaming part of it. 

"No way," she takes a hasty step back. "You didn't have to -- I don't--"

"You never ask for anything," her mom says, curving a warm hand around Max's trembling shoulder. "And you've been so strong, so inspiring, all through this horrible, awful year. And now you're graduating. You're independent and responsible, and you make us so proud. You deserve this." 

"But--"

"Hey, if you want to give it back..." her dad teases, jangling the keys again. 

Max's mouth erupts into a broad smile. She laughs, her eyes brimming with wet. 

"Thank you," she breathes. "Thank you so, so much."

She hugs them both tightly, inhaling their safe, familiar smell. She's struck by a flood of warmth; a soft whisper in her ear that she might have lost close to everything this past year, but she still has them. Her fingers curl once more in her father's shirt, around her mother's shoulder, before she releases them, beaming bright.

Before she climbs in, she takes out her phone and snaps a quick photo for Warren.

His answering text is almost immediate, stuffed full with emojis and enthusiastic exclamation points.

 

_DAMN, MAX!!!  2 fast 2 furious!! Nice wheels! Congrats!_

_btw -- YOU OWE ME LIKE 500+ SPINS IN THAT BEAUTY_

 

She grins, and texts back.

 

_I'm good for it :)_

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The court is just as crowded, if not more crowded, than it was yesterday. Max had practically sprinted up the steps of the building, face down and hair spilling across her face as a protective barrier between her and the yelling, jostling reporters. Inside, the hustle and bustle is just as frantic. She shoulders past suit after suit, avoids stumbling onto someone's toes. 

She grabs a tea for Kate at a cart, and keeps going with her parents on her heels until she spots her. Kate sits hunched over on the bench by the courtroom door. There is a resolve to her shoulders that Max knows isn't going anywhere. 

"Good morning, Kate," Max hands her the tea, doing her best to sound upbeat. 

"Morning." She sounds relieved to see a familiar face, taking the tea gratefully and cupping both hands around it on her lap. She looks past Max, smiles shyly at her parents and stands to shake their hands. "Hi."

"Kate." Max's mom immediately envelops her in a lung-crushing hug. "It's  _so_  nice to meet you. We've heard a lot about you." 

"I bet," Kate says, but not unkindly. "You should be really proud of Max. She's an amazing friend to me."

"We are," her dad says. He  _ruffles_  Max's hair like she's suddenly six years old, and the utterly outraged look on Max's face makes Kate put a hand over her mouth, suppressing a giggle.

"We'll head in and get a seat," her mother tells them. "Max, will you be sitting with your friends?"

"If that's okay?"

"Of course. We'll see you afterwards." She smiles at Kate in warm parting. "Good luck. You'll be great."

Max sits with Kate, wanting to gather her thoughts before she heads inside. She almost wishes she could be allowed to sit with Kate. Yesterday had taught her that all that waiting is torturous. 

"Your parents are really nice," Kate says.

"They've been really great through this whole thing." She looks around. "Is... your family here?"

"Yes. Just my mom and dad, I... didn't want my sisters here. They wanted to come, but..."

"Yeah."

Kate pauses for a moment. She swivels to face her more fully. "So, I got this text from Warren this morning," she says, voice dropping to something soft and awestruck. "He said... Nathan  _broke out of the hospital_  last night, and you found something major. Is that actually true?"

Max nods slowly, and watches the moment Kate's face becomes awash with astonishment.

"What did you find?" Kate asks quickly. "Can it help us?"

Max glances over both shoulders, but the crowd wandering past and around them seem caught up in other things. The buzz of conversation is loud and constant enough for Max to not have to whisper.

"Dean left something behind. I can't figure out if he wanted someone else to find it or if he was just hiding it for himself, but, it doesn't matter. The important thing is that we have it. And it's going to change everything."

"Warren was just as vague," Kate remarks, but her eyes are impossibly bright, a smile pressing the corners of her lips. "What  _is_  it, exactly?"

"Dean wasn't supplying Jefferson. Sean lied to him, he convinced Dean he was actually supplying his father's medical research business. When Dean found out the truth, he ransacked his father's office and found everything he could on the Dark Room. And he uploaded all of it to a USB."

Kate stares at her, mouth agape.

"You have to be kidding--"

"I'm not. Swear."

"So w-we... we actually--"

"Have him," Max finishes, allowing a smile of her own. "By the  _balls_."

Kate grabs her hands and squeezes, her features swelling with so much joy it seems impossible to contain. "We have him!" she repeats excitedly. "We have him!" She exhales hard, her head tipping back against the cool wall. "That... makes me a lot less terrified about my testimony."

"Tell them everything," Max affirms. 

She bites her lip. "Nathan--"

" _Everything_ ," Max stresses. "Don't go easy on him."

"Okay." Kate nods shakily. "Okay."

Max rubs her shoulder soothingly. The corridor is beginning to empty out, the crowd heading into the courtroom. A glance at her watch confirms it's almost time. 

"I can't wait for this to be over," Kate says.

"Me too. But we're  _almost_  there." Max stands, and Kate goes with her. They hug tightly, Max doing her best to press some invisible strength into Kate's skin. But it doesn't matter if it works or not. Kate already has all the strength she could ever need. 

Max pulls away, smiling. "Kick some ass in there."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The morning's unstable wind has picked up a little more, Max can hear it roaring from inside the courtroom. The trees visible through the long, narrow windows are thrashing rather violently from side to side, as if the leaves are punching the breeze away, trying to get some peace and quiet. 

She takes a seat in the rows, sandwiched between Warren and Victoria. She keeps squirming, wrought with nerves but also a bubbling, fizzy sort of anticipation that made it hard to concentrate. She drinks in everything about the room, wanting to commit this day to her memory forever. She inhales the wooden scent of the polished furniture, the waxy stench of the floor and the ever-present traces of coffee beans, cologne, expensive suit material freshly ironed. 

She turns her head and watches Victoria, arms crossed and anxious looking. Last year, Victoria was the type to blanket her nerves. She hid them behind permanent frowns and smug insults. Now, she shows her insecurities more openly, let her face sit wide and accessible and vulnerable. She isn't afraid of anxiety anymore, or fear. Her eyes keep flicking to the so-far unoccupied table where Nathan will soon sit, and Max knows exactly what she's thinking.

Max nudges her, and Victoria startles, as if roused from a dream.

"Did Warren tell you about..." she lets herself trail off. There is no need to utter the words yet, not when they will soon drench this room completely. 

Victoria nods. Swallows. "I knew Dean would have never gotten himself involved with somebody like Jefferson," she says weakly. "Max, what you found, it's  _serious_  shit." She looks at Max then, her eyes glazed with worry. "But will it really be enough?"

"It has to be," Max returns. "It's all we have. I really think it's the best evidence we could've found."

"I didn't mean Mr. Prescott."

Max follows her gaze. "Nathan?"

"Will that USB help  _him?_ "

"I want it to," Max admits. 

"Yeah." 

"But it might not."

Victoria nods slowly. "I know. I'm kinda preparing myself for that." She sighs. "This is so fucked. All of this, everything that happened. If I hadn't been so stupid, I might've seen what Jefferson was from the beginning. If I'd been there for Nathan, I could've... I could've--"

Max touches her wrist gently. At first Victoria steels at the touch, and even Max holds her next breath. Physical contact with Victoria is unusual enough that she half expects Victoria to slap her hand away.

But she doesn't. Victoria finally relaxes, her shoulders sagging out of their usual iron posture. 

"There was nothing you could have done," Max says. She sighs. "Trust me."

"I can't wait to get out of this town," Victoria mutters. 

Max withdraws her hand slowly, smiling. "You're probably boarding a jumbo jet to LA or New York, after finals."

"Paris, actually."

" _Paris?_ "

Victoria looks away, suddenly quiet. "Yeah. I got accepted into a college there. Photography and visual arts programme." She shrugs. "I found out yesterday."

Max turns sharply." _Seriously?_ Holy shit!"

 _"_ Oh my God, don't have an aneurysm."

"Victoria! That's huge! Congratulations!"

For some reason, Victoria appears uncomfortable with Max's excitement. She shrugs again. "It's whatever. If I want my parents to seriously consider letting me get involved with the Chase Space, then I have to get serious about photography. It's... It's no big deal."

"Are you kidding me? Yes it is!" Max's eyes have gone wide. "I can't think of anyone who deserves it more. You're going to be so great."

Victoria doesn't answer, just stares straight ahead with a strange expression.

"Aren't you... freaking out?" Max wonders, her smile melting into a bewildered frown. "Isn't photography your dream?"

"I am freaking out, and it is," Victoria says petulantly. She hesitates. "It's just..."

"What?"

"Never mind. God."

"No, tell me."

Victoria frowns at her, then looks away again, crossing her arms. "Maybe when I first sent in the application a few months ago, I underestimated how... far away Paris is. From here, I mean. Whatever."

"You'll  _miss_  Arcadia?"

"God no. But --"

"But...?"

Victoria presses her lips together, colors suddenly. 

And it hits Max. 

Victoria glances over at her, her scowl deepening. "What are you smiling about?"

"You'll miss  _us_." Max grins. "That's what you mean, right?"

" _No_ ," Victoria snaps, but her expression betrays her. 

"You totally will!"

"Please. Don't flatter yourself." Victoria sweeps a hand through her hair. "But, whatever. Maybe I just got used to having your dumb faces around. Going to a new country, starting over. It's going to be... like,  _weird_ , not seeing you every day. That's all."

Warren suddenly leans over, a mock expression of devastation pasted teasingly onto his features. "Oh man, you're gonna make me cry."

Victoria swats at him like an agitating fly, and he pulls back, laughing. 

"We'll stay in touch," Max says sincerely. "Texting, e-mail, Skype. Maybe I can even save up enough to come visit. I've heard that Paris is amazingly beautiful." She thinks of Chloe for a moment, a soft sting penetrating her chest.

"You seriously want to stay in contact?" Victoria asks dubiously. 

"Why wouldn't I?"

Victoria shifts in her seat, awkward. "I treated you like shit when you first started here. I was, like, a major bitch."

"That's in the past," Max says. "Really."

"But we aren't even... friends."

"Aren't we? Then maybe your definition of friends needs to change," Max returns. "I'm not Courtney or Taylor. I'm not going to fawn after you. Friendship -- real friendship, you have to put in as much as you get. You support each other. Trust each other. And that's what we've done, the past few months." She nudges her, and this time Victoria doesn't inch away or go stiff. 

Victoria's lips purse, like she's trying and failing to not smile.

"Whatever," she hums. " guess I did like hanging out with you nerds this year."

Warren pretends to sob next to her, wiping at his eyes. Max laughs loudly, and seconds later, Victoria joins in, rolling her gaze to heaven. 

"I definitely won't miss  _you_ , Graham," she jokes.

"Lies," Warren retorts breezily. "Don't pretend there won't be a Warren-shaped hole in your life next semester."

Victoria makes a witty quip that involves a comparison of Warren-hole and asshole, and they're laughing again. And it doesn't feel like they're in a court room at all, and it doesn't feel like they're perched precariously on the edge of something monumental.  

At least not until Carmin enters, Nathan trailing after her, and all of them are abruptly silenced. And reminded, quite forcibly, of the gravity of this moment. 

His tie is red today, a shock of crimson against the pristine white of his shirt. He looks showered and scrubbed, all of last night's mud and leaves and shock rubbed off. His hair is gelled into his usual style, but the usual curl has slipped free. He is as pale and waxy as yesterday, but not as obviously so. She can see him deep breathing. 

He catches Max's eye, and nods once, lips twitching. She smiles in return, and it seems to give him renewed energy as he sinks down into his chair, body folding itself into something small. 

They're minutes from the judge walking in, before Max realizes something. 

Something... problematic. 

She elbows Warren hard. "Where the hell is Sean?"

He's not here. Neither is Scarlett. 

The two empty spaces at the front row stand out like a great gaping wound. 

"Damn," Warren hisses back. "Uh, don't worry. I'm sure they'll be here. Gotta be, right?"

Max glances out the windows. It's started to rain, fat drops of it staining the glass. The sky rolls thunderously overhead, weighed down by stone-black clouds. 

Are they stuck in traffic? 

Have they even  _left_  the house?

"What if they're not coming?" Max pales. Sweat begins to gather on her skin, as a hot shiver spikes down her spine. "What if--"

"There's no way they wouldn't be here," Warren says, but he's babbling, trying to convince himself. "The one fucking day we need them to be."

The rest of the pews are getting to their feet, wood groaning underneath them. 

The judge is here, walking in.

The trial is starting, and Sean's not  _here_.

Carmin turns around and notices the empty seats. She finds Max's gaze. 

Max's stomach does a sickly, hot somersault. Because Carmin looks afraid.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"Where  _is_  he?" Max hisses for what has to be the hundredth time since the judge commenced the trial. 

"I'm usually optimistic, but this is bad," Warren mutters back. His eyes are stuck in a permanent state of horrified roundness. "What should we do? What's Carmin going to do?"

"He's supposed to testify after Kate," Max says. "He wouldn't miss that. Would he?"

The rain and wind has picked up so much that it's actually hard to  _hear_  the trial at times, and Max knows for a fact the walls of this building are thick. She thinks if someone dared open a window, half the room would blow away. She watches Carmin carefully. She knows her well enough by now to notice when Carmin is obviously uncomfortable. Fitz has the floor at the moment, making some kind of statement that mirrors yesterday's, and Carmin sits upright with her legs delicately crossed. But she appears  _too_  rigid,  _too_  put together. She's clearly trying to stay calm. 

Nathan noticed his father's absence around the same time Max did. He's since rubbed the skin of his neck so hard and so frequently since that the area is almost entirely blooming with irritated red. He's sweating, too. He's taken his jacket off, slung it over the back of the chair. His shirt is plastered to his skin, so much so that the lines of the undershirt he's wearing are visible through the fabric. His hair is becoming undone, curling at the nape of his neck. 

This isn't how the plan is supposed to go down. They have spent so much time and effort making sure they had all of the information to crush Sean like a bug on the stand, but they never stopped to account for the possibility of him  _not_  actually being there.

Max's heart slams a unsteady beat in her chest, every cell in her body tight with disbelief and fear. 

Five minutes pass. Then ten more. Carmin is making her statement to the court and every half second she flicks her gaze worriedly to the empty seats. 

Fifteen minutes. Twenty.

"Kate Marsh," Fitz is saying, "is called to the stand."

" _No_ ," Max hisses. "Not yet. He's not here."

"Carmin can't stall any longer, they'll know something's up." Victoria says tightly. "Fuck."

Kate's shoes are nearly soundless beneath the hailing wind and rain. She walks quickly up to the stand, hands clasped in front of her. Nathan raises his head a little as she passes him. His hands are trembling badly.

Kate takes the Oath, sits down. 

Max observes the precise moment her eyes fall on the vacant Prescott seats. She watches as Kate's lips part, as her eyes close and open a few times, blinking hard through an imaginary fog.

"Miss Marsh," Fitz says. "Is it correct that you are a student at Blackwell Academy?"

"Yes, that's correct," Kate says quietly.

"Is it correct that you were involved in an incident on October 4th of last year?"

"Y-Yes." Kate answers. 

"Is it correct that this incident involved Nathan Prescott?"

"Yes."

"Please tell the court what happened to you, Miss Marsh, on October 4th."

"I-I was..." Kate starts, then hesitates. Max can almost hear her hard swallow. "I was drugged at a Vortex Club party by Nathan Prescott."

Immediately, the court was filled with a soft undercurrent of whispers. Kate stiffened in response and Max felt a swelling urge to race up to the stand and stand in front of her, block her from the dozens of probing eyes.

"Please go into further detail, Miss Marsh," Fitz says, and at least he has the decency to say it gently.

"I was put on the guest list for a Vortex Club party. I - I've never been invited before, and I almost didn't go. But I convinced myself it would be fun." She stops, swallows again. "I had one sip of red wine and for the rest of the night I drank water.  _Just_  water--"

"Do you drink, Miss Marsh?" Fitz interrupts.

"No," Kate replies. "Just the wine at Church."

"Go on."

Her eyes find Max, as if searching for something familiar to latch onto. Max gives her the strongest smile she can muster.

"I remember talking to Nathan. He was -- He was nice. He brought me into the VIP area and... and he got me a drink. I remember him giving me water."

Nathan's head is hanging low. But when Kate looks at him, he meets her gaze unflinchingly. He doesn't shy away from it or ignore it. 

"What happened next?" Fitz asks, tugging on his tie.

Kate's cheeks have colored, two spots of pink. "I felt sick all of a sudden. And dizzy. I remember the room was... spinning. I remember people around me, I think I was dancing but... I-I don't remember it well at all. And... then I felt sleepy. Nathan brought me outside, to his truck. He said he was going to take me to the hospital."

Joyce is shaking her head slowly from side to side, her face ashen.

"What happened next?" 

"I-I can't remember. I woke up in a room, it was so bright. I heard Nathan's voice, and another voice. But I can't remember anything that happened there." Her voice quivers a bit. "I woke up the next day outside my dorm room. And then...the video--"

"The video in question," Fitz says to the jury, "is the same video noted in your case files. It shows Miss Marsh is clearly intoxicated, under the influence of some kind of substance. Nathan Prescott is also in the video."

The jury mutter to each other, turning pages of the folders in front of them.

Fitz turns back to Kate. "Do you believe you were drugged that night, Miss Marsh?"

"Yes," Kate states. 

"By who?"

"By Nathan Prescott."

Fitz nods. "No further questions, your Honor. I think Miss Marsh's testimony shows the court that Nathan Prescott is clearly a highly dangerous and calculating individual."

Carmin gets to her feet. Max tries to make eye contact but the lawyer is pacing slowly towards the stand, hands clasped behind her back. She glances one more time at the vacant seats and Max swears she sees an uncharacteristic bead of sweat on Carmin's forehead.

Her stomach sinks like a stone to the bottom of the ocean floor. 

"Miss Marsh," Carmin says, and she's drawing every syllable out. "Can you describe for the court Nathan Prescott's demeanor at this Vortex Club party?"

"I-I can't really remember--"

"I understand that. But you said initially, you remembered he was being kind towards you."

"Yes, but," Kate hesitates for a moment, "he didn't seem... present, or something--"

"You believe that Nathan Prescott was under the influence that night?"

"Yes, but," Kate says again, "it was more than that. He seemed distant, and confused. He was shaking a little when he was talking to me. Jumpy. He seemed... afraid, I think."

"Afraid, you say." Carmin's eyes find the seats once more, but again they're empty. She swallows. "Miss Marsh, tell the court more about this strange room you woke up in."

"I can't remember much at all," Kate answers, "just that it was blindingly white. I was lying down." 

"And, Miss Marsh, do you..."

Carmin hesitates, for the first time. The judge even looks at her, bewildered. 

She's stalling. 

"Apologies. Miss Marsh, have you--"

Doors. 

Max bolts upright in her seat.

The sound of doors opening. 

 _Footsteps_.

Sean Prescott comes strolling up the aisle as though he isn't tremendously late. How did he even get in? His usual privileged, Max assumes. The judge scowls at the interruption, but Sean merely lifts a hand in half-assed apology and slides into the seat. Scarlett is on his heels, click-clacking as always, looking greatly disinterested in even being here. And Harry, wandering after her like a prisoner, his hair damp from the cold rain.  

Carmin's eyes clash with Max's. Max actually feels like her own orbs are about to pop out of her head. 

Suddenly, it's like somebody slapped batteries into Carmin.

She turns to Kate, shoulders back, voice high and loud and almost telling the wind outside to shut up. 

Max knows it's beginning. 

The wind roars.

"You said you remembered another voice in this room," Carmin says confidently, "other than Nathan's?"

Kate looks relieved. It seems to roll over her in waves. "Yes," she says, "I--"

Fitz stands, cutting her off.

"Your Honor, this trial is about Mr. Prescott, not whoever else happened to be in this room. It has nothing to do with this case. Miss Silva's line of questioning is irrelevant." 

And before the judge can even respond, Carmin spins to face the room.

Warren grabs Max's wrist and squeezes, a silent question of  _are you ready_ passing in the tense air between them.

"On the contrary," Carmin declares, "It has everything to do with this case."

The court erupts in confused murmurs. The judge slaps the gaval to bring silence. 

"Miss Silva," she says disapprovingly, "I hope this is going somewhere."

"Miss Marsh," Carmin says loudly, "in your opinion, who do you believe to have been this other voice?"

Kate is silent for a moment, and though Carmin's back is turned and Max can't make out her face, she knows her expression is one of confident assurance.

Kate raises her chin. "Mark Jefferson."

The judge ends up having to bang the gaval again, for the name brings a rising tide of whispers, grunts, gasps, shifting bodies. 

"Miss Silva," the judge barks, "what is this about?"

Fitz is on his feet, his fist curled in his tie. "Irrelevant again, your Honor. Her questioning is--"

The judge sighs. "Sit down, Mr. Fitzpatrick."

"Uh, yes Ma'am."

Carmin looks hard at the judge and whatever is communicated between them makes the judge sit back, set her gavel down. She's frowning, but seems interested. 

"Let the record show," Carmin declares, "that the death of Chloe Price is intrinsically connected to the Dark Room scandal that befell Arcadia at almost the exact same time last year."

The court is flooded with murmurs again. Sean tilts his head. His wife turns to him, a frown etched on her face. 

Max's hands curl into fists.

"The court is surely aware from Miss Marsh's testimony, and furthermore from following the news," Carmin goes on, "that Miss Marsh was one of Mark Jefferson's victims. The court is also surely aware that Nathan Prescott was involved with the Dark Room. He has confessed at length to Arcadia Bay police of his role in deliberately drugging girls to take to Jefferson's bunker."

"Jefferson's trial starts in about a month," Fitz says, looking baffled. "It is separate to Chloe Price's death. If Miss Silva wants to defend her client a month early, she is welcome to do so, but not in this courtroom your Honor." 

A harsh sheath of rain pounds suddenly against the windows, and everyone jumps.

"If Your Honor will allow me to prove a significant connection between Chloe Price's death and Nathan's involvement with the Dark Room, I have more than enough proof to back it up," Carmin says firmly.

"Your Honor," Fitz pleads.

The judge leans forward on her hands. "Go ahead, Miss Silva. I am... intrigued."

"Thank you, Miss Marsh," Carmin says. She turns, ice in her eyes. "I call Sean Prescott to the stand."

Max's stomach twists painfully. Her heart is pounding hard, leaping up into her throat and making it hard to swallow. 

Kate reaches them right as Max is trying to remember how to breathe properly. She sits on Victoria's other side, her face red, her eyes bright and wet. 

The air in the room has changed. It's tight, full of something that presses harder and harsher than oxygen. 

Sean hasn't reacted yet. He's just sitting there, arm across the back of his seat, watching Carmin like a vicious predator peers through long-grass. 

"Mr. Prescott?" The judge calls out. "You are called to testify. Please approach the stand."

It takes a couple more seconds, suspended in unbearable tension, but finally Nathan's father rises fluidly to his feet. 

Nathan shrinks away from him, practically scrambles, as he passes by. He seems to close in on himself. Even some people in the other pews are recoiling, leaning away. 

Sean Prescott takes the Oath with a smug smile, a twinkle in his eyes that burrows under Max's skin.

Carmin waits patiently for him to sit.

"State your name for the record."

He grins, teeth and all. "I am certain that everyone knows who I am."

He means it as a joke, the words dripping with nauseating arrogance. It falls flat. 

Carmin's face steels, and he seems surprised by her coldness.

"State your name for the record," she spits.

"Sean Prescott," he says, almost sighing. "The Fourth."

"What is your relationship to Nathan Prescott?"

"Nathan is my son." He looks at Nathan hard, his expression deeply undecipherable. 

"Mr. Prescott, what was your initial reaction upon hearing about the shooting of Chloe Price on October 7th, 2013?"

"Well, horror, of course." He smiles then, like something's  _funny._ "My heart was broken for the girl's family. I thought it was a horrible, awful tragedy." 

"And your reaction to knowing it was your son who had pulled the trigger?"

He takes his sweet time answering. He stares at Carmin coolly. Eerily. But she holds her ground, almost reflecting his own smugness back at him, and Max feels a swell of pride.

"My wife and I were deeply shocked," he answers at last. "To know our son took the life of an innocent girl, I don't even have the words." 

"Really." Carmin says. A beat, and then, "I would have assumed you wouldn't have been surprised at all."

Max  _wishes_ she could capture the look that passes over Sean's face, or somehow bottle the taken aback, thick silence that falls over the court and changes the air again. 

Max sucks in a breath, holds it until her chest burns.

"Excuse me?" Sean says.

Carmin turns to the jury, lacing her hands in front of her. "I spent yesterday establishing that the catalyst for Nathan's behavior was rooted significantly in his childhood, in what I firmly believe and have, as I am certain you'll agree, proved to be a result of severe child neglect. Nathan was not equipped to deal with his mental state. At home, it was ignored, belittled. Not only is this visible through the testimonies and physical evidence already provided, but to go a step further, also in what I, as a friend of this family, have personally witnessed over the entirety of Nathan's life. I can tell the jury of many incidents in which Nathan's mental health was not adequately cared for, from the time his symptoms began to manifest as a young adolescent." 

She turns back to Sean. "I must wonder, Mr. Prescott, if you truly  _were_  surprised to hear Nathan had harmed another person, when you had essentially ensured it would inevitably happen, through your gross negligence and disinterest in getting him mental help." 

Fitz looks like he's about to stand up, but decides against. He keeps glancing back at Joyce and David, his eyes wide, sweat coating his forehead.

They all think Carmin must be having some sort of break, turning against her own witness like this. Even the judge's attention is rapt on the surreal scene playing out in front of her. 

Carmin spins to face the court. "Mr. Prescott provided his son with little care, validation or positive feedback. As my client Nathan Prescott grew up, as he spiraled further into a pit of mental instability he was never equipped nor encouraged to understand, he rather understandably turned to other adults around him in search of guidance. The most recent mentor was Mark Jefferson." 

"What are you doing, Carmin?" Sean asks steadily, but he's forcing himself to sound collected. There's cracks. Max can hear it. Her blood rises, thrumming with adrenalin.

"It may seem that it was a case of a lost student turning to a kindly, inspirational teacher, one whose photography work he greatly admired. But that was how it seemed on the surface. Truly, Mark Jefferson's arrival in Arcadia Bay was not a result of a job offer by Principal Wells of Blackwell Academy. The great Mark Jefferson was surely in receipt of much better, much bigger offers from more well-known, highly-regarded institutions. So why Arcadia?" Carmin begins to pace, hands moving animatedly as the words fall from her lips. "The real reason Mark Jefferson came to Arcadia is because he was orchestrated to do so. It had been planned for a significant period. He was lured with substantial money, and the promise of top-of-the-line equipment. And, perhaps most importantly," Carmin looks over her shoulder at Sean. "A quiet, hidden away photography studio, in which Mark Jefferson could enact his  _Dark Room_  to its fullest potential." 

The crowd are murmuring again, but the judge makes no effort this time to quieten them. She's watching Carmin, her eyes slightly wide. Sean's face is quickly reddening.

"Carmin," he states. More cracks at the edges of his voice. He won't be holding together for long.

"Nathan Prescott did not simply fall into Mark Jefferson's activities. On the contrary, he was ordered to assist him. To carry out a role. Why, you ask?" Carmin braces her hands on the stand, leans into Sean's space. Her voice falls loud on his microphone, ricochets around the court. "To protect a family legacy."

The whispers rise, turn to audible voices. Shock, confusion. It swirls around the room like smoke.

"Let the record show," Carmin straightens, turns her back on a rapidly reddening Sean. "That Sean Prescott, the  _Fourth_ ," she adds sarcastically, "made certain that Mark Jefferson came to Arcadia Bay. He convinced Principal Wells to take the almost impossible chance of sending a job offer to a famous photographer celebrity, who I'm sure was then quite startled when said celebrity accepted it. He built Jefferson that bunker beneath the Prescott barn--"

"I think you'll find I did build a bunker, but I certainly had no idea that my  _son_  had given his photography teacher access to it," Sean interjects roughly. "The construction papers show I only ordered its establishment." 

His smile returns, smug. Unbothered. But beneath, Max knows he's seething; it's ready to seep out through every part of him. 

Carmin turns to him. Grins, so wide and so brightly that he actually  _blinks_. It's a spectacular and prized thing, Max realizes, to witness Sean Prescott caught off guard.

"The Dark Room did not start in Arcadia Bay," Carmin continues. "It also did not start as the sole project of Mark Jefferson, intended to appease his twisted mind." She turns to the court. "The Dark Room is a ring. It spans countless states, and countries. It has many associates. But it only has one overseer." She pauses. "Sean Prescott."

There are cries from the public rows. Scarlett Prescott stands up, so abruptly she almost knocks Harry to the ground. Her chest is heaving, her face red. Max can't figure out the expression coating her icy features but it strikes her with terror nonetheless.

Scarlett turns on her heel and leaves, yanking a startled Harry down the aisle and out the door.

People whip their heads around, elbow each other, shout things at Sean that Max can't make out over the slam of the rain. 

Sean leans back in his chair. He appears unaffected by Scarlett's storm-out, but does look affected by the words tumbling from his own lawyer's lips. He stares hard at the back of her head, his eyebrows furrowing to a vicious line.

The judge smacks the gavil hard. "Order!" she bellows. "Miss Silva, these are serious accusations." 

"Yes they are, your Honor." 

Nathan's shaking all over now. His head in his hands. He pulls at his hair, rubs his fingers across his eyes. He won't look at his father, refuses to. 

"Not only was Nathan Prescott's severe mental state and drug use a key contributor to the killing of Chloe Price," Carmin goes on, "but allow me to further illustrate that his father's influence was also a factor."

" _Outrageous_ ," Sean grits out. "Are you seriously trying to suggest--"

Carmin cuts across him, talks over him, drowns out the rest of his sentence and he flops back in his seat, muttering under his breath. 

"Sean Prescott has made enormous wealth through the Dark Room and its operations," Carmin continues. "He has made important contacts that ensure not only the financial stability of his family in Arcadia Bay, but also their influence. Sean Prescott wants a legacy. He wants the Dark Room to be that legacy. He manipulated his son, made him desperately hungry for validation, for a father's pride. And he did it through the Dark Room. He made his son eager to please him. He made it so that his son would do anything to earn that respect." 

"This is utterly ridiculous," Sean exclaims. "Nathan has never been interested in ' _legacy_ ', as you call it. He may have wanted respect but he certainly never wanted to earn it." 

Carmin glances at him coolly. "I wasn't talking about Nathan."

Warren grabs Max's hand. His palm is clammy, as clammy as hers. 

Sean is silent for an impossibly long moment, one that stretches bigger and more suffocating. Pressing the air from Max's lungs, from the room. 

"Carmin," he says, and it sounds like a lethal warning. "I ask you again.  _What_  are you doing?"

"The court, and indeed the residents of Arcadia Bay," Carmin goes on, her voice clear and commanding, "remember a terrible tragedy struck the Prescott family several years ago."

The whispers cut off, like a knife slashed them gone. This silence is a dangerous one. It's weak, vulnerable. Ready to break.

"Dean Prescott was found dead of a drug overdose at the age of seventeen, in his own bedroom on the Prescott Estate. He was greatly admired in the community. A dedicated Blackwell student, a champion swimmer, a friend to many."

"Do not mention his name," Sean gets out, his teeth gritted again. "He has nothing to do with this."

"Oh, but he has everything to do with this, does he not?"

Sean stares at her, taken aback. " _Carmin_."

From the pocket of her skirt, Carmin draws it out, and holds it high up in the air.

"Before his death, Dean left behind some interesting information about you, Mr. Prescott."

" _Nathan_ ," Sean hisses. "Look at me.  _Look_  at me. What is she doing?"

Nathan raises his chin. Defiant. "What Dean wanted."

"I have looked at the contents of this USB. It contains damning evidence, and I do mean damning, of Sean Prescott's clear organisation and running of the Dark Room photographic ring. But I believe that all the court needs to see is a video clip." 

A television is rolled out, with equipment attached. 

Nathan is crying by the time Dean's exhausted face appears on the screen.

And he tells his story again. 

Sean Prescott stares in disbelieving horror at the screen, at the ghost he thought he buried. 

When the video finishes, the silence in court is deafening. Nathan's hands are over his eyes, elbows on the desk. He's whimpering quietly. As Carmin passes him, her hand glides along his shoulder in support.

"You may be wondering the relevance of this to Chloe Price," she says. "It should be, by now, clear for all to see. Sean Prescott neglected both of his sons. He cared little for them as people, and only for them as trophies. Under the crushing weight of the Dark Room, he broke both of them, and drove them to breaking point. Dean's breaking point was his ketamine overdose. I implore that the court recognize the tragic death of Chloe Price as Nathan's. Because of Sean Prescott, Nathan was placed on a dark and dangerous and perhaps even unstoppable path."

She pauses for a moment, faces the jury. "I ask that you recognize this. My client is not a cold-blooded or calculated killer. He never intended to shoot Chloe Price. His mental state was debilitated, disconnected from reality, and does not come close to the much more stable, level-headed and truly remorseful young man sitting before you today."

The jury look at each other. Carmin sighs.

"But he is also not a victim," she adds. Behind her, Nathan is nodding through his streaming tears. "Accidental or not, however you wish to judge it, my client still took the life of a young woman who had her whole life ahead of her. He recognizes this fully, and is profoundly sorry. Nathan Prescott's actions on October 7th came as the inevitable result of years of extreme neglect and mental instability, yet at the same time, he recognizes and has expressed to me countless times that this does not excuse what happened. It explains it, but it does not justify it."

Murmurs erupt through the court. They sound startled.

"What I have shown you today marks the conclusion of our defense," Carmin says. "So, going forward, I ask that you consider everything we have said. Do not judge my client on the dangerous black-and-white basis of 'He is evil, he is cold-hearted'. I am afraid the world we live in has no room for black-and-white. Believing in black-and-white gets us nowhere. Instead, we ask that you show compassion, informed opinion, nuance and understanding. There are complex layers to who we are and what we do. Shades of gray are painful to acknowledge, but we ask that you consider them in your deliberations."

Carmin swallows, and turns to Joyce and David.

"What happened to Chloe Price can not be changed, amended or taken back. It is doomed forever to be a sorrowful and regretful piece of Arcadia history. But what you can do today is ensure that she is the catalyst for ending the most disgusting, destructive criminal ring that I have ever known. For all this talk of legacy, I am certain Chloe would not mind this to be hers." 

She looks over at Joyce and David. They're nodding at Carmin, holding each other. Max's heart swells up, threatening to burst.

Carmin looks up at the judge. "The defense rests, your Honor."

Carmin sags into the seat beside Nathan, puts her hand on his trembling shoulder and squeezes. It's the most affection Max has seen her show anyone, and for some reason, it makes her eyes sting.

She feels exhausted. She feels overwhelmed. She feels like this whole thing has been an endless race towards a disappearing finishing line.

But it's over. It's finally over.

Sean shoots upright in his seat. "Silva, what the  _hell_  have you done?"

"My job," she says dryly. "I put bad people away, remember?"

"This is insane," he splutters, "I will not accept this false, unfounded ambush. I was--"

The judge waves at the officers, posted by the door. "Arrest this man," she orders.

Sean splutters, and actually looks like he's about to sprint away, but the officers get there first. They snap handcuffs on, and Max feels like something clicks perfectly into place. The world feels different. 

"Mr. Fitzpatrick," says the judge, "do you wish to offer your closing statement?"

Fitz glances back at Joyce and David, and his face is almost comical. His tie is a mess around his neck, his skin damp and bright red.

Joyce and David shake their heads.

"Uh," Fitz stands, pulling anxiously on his tie like always. 

Joyce leans over, murmurs in his ear.

Fitz nods. "We request that the jury also hold Chloe's memory in mind, when making their decision."

The judge raises an eyebrow, but doesn't dwell on it. 

Warren turns and pulls Max into a hug. "You did it!" he hisses. "Holy  _shit--_ "

"We did it," Max breathes. She doesn't know when she started crying, but her face is hot and wet with tears, her breath coming quick and shivery. "Oh my God. I can't believe we did it."

The judge's voice echoes around the room.

"Then it is time for the jury to begin deliberations--"

_BANG._

The crowd swivels. Max turns with a jolt, to the source of the deafening slam. 

The doors. Another officer has burst through them, out of breath and soaked with rain. 

And the look on his face chills Max to the core.

Before he even opens his mouth, she knows exactly what he's going to say.

The judge calls out to him, irritated. "There is a trial in progress here. What are you barging--"

His mouth drops open and a shout comes out, raising all of the hair on the back of Max's neck.

" _GET OUT OF HERE_ ," he yells. "There's a monster fucking tornado headed this way!"

Two seconds.

Two seconds of silence, of stillness, of frozen inaction.

And then,

 _Bedlam_.

People start leaping up from their seats so violently that a couple of the rows get knocked over, domino-effecting the rest. Shouts go up, screams of confusion too. A particularly furious gust of wind smashes the windows, all of them. Glass sprays everywhere, littering the floor. 

Max stumbles to her feet, sucking in a cold gasp that rattles raw in her throat.

_No no no no no--_

"What the fuck?" Victoria shrieks. "Did he say _tornado?_ "

" _Max_ ," Warren urges.

People are flying out of the doors, stumbling over the broken glass. The judge has disappeared, the jury too. Officers are racing out the door, and Sean--

Sean is  _gone_. He must have escaped in all of the chaos. 

"No!" Max screams, dodging the shoulders and arms knocking into her in a frenzied effort to get out of the room. "Where's--"

"Max! We have to go! It's not safe!" Kate pulls desperately on her arm. 

"But Sean--"

"Come  _on_."

They make it into the corridor, but Max feels like if she stops running she'll be paralyzed. She storms down the hallway and outside. The sky is boiling soup, black and gray and full of foreboding destruction. She can't see the tornado, but she smells it in the air, feels it tingling her skin.

"Why is it here?" Warren yells, shielding his face from the onslaught of gust and rain. "The ancestors are in Arcadia, not fucking Portland!"

"I don't know," Max gasps out, "this isn't supposed to happen. We had Sean, we  _had_  him--"

Max doubles over. Her vision drowns in darkness, the edges of her mind assaulted by a sudden, cutting pain that seems to tear her brain apart. She cries out in agony, clutching at her hed. 

The lighthouse explodes into view in her mind, the only thing she can comprehend. It's bright, enormous, a beacon amidst a howling storm--

And something standing at the bottom--

A person--

A girl--

With a shock of blue hair and shouting through the wind, words that sound a lot like  _get over here, Max--_

"Max!" Warren's hands are grasping at her hands, wrists, trying to make her stand up. His face is drenched in worry. "Are you okay?"

She swallows thickly, her stomach churning. "I - I had..."

"Another vision?"

"I think so. Shit."

"Of what?"

"The lighthouse."

"The lighthouse?" 

"I think I have to go there."

Warren gapes at her, astonished. Kate and Victoria find them, their faces flushed and slick with the torrential rain.

"Max, your nose," Victoria says worriedly, "you're bleeding!"

" _Why?"_  Warren rasps. "Why do you have to go back?"

A menacing crack of thunder splits the air above them and the crowd around them shrieks. People are pouring out of the neighboring buildings, flooding the streets. It feels like fucking armageddon, and all too familiar to Max. 

"Chloe," Max exhales hard. "I saw her."

"It's too dangerous," he says, shaking his head violently. "You can't drive back there. You're going to be heading right into the eye of the storm!"

"Don't worry," Max says, "I survived one tornado, remember? Maybe I can survive another."

" _Maybe?_ "

Kate is shaking her head. "Max, what are you doing?"

"What I have to do," Max says quickly. "Don't worry about me. If I'm supposed to go back there, if I'm meant to, then I'll be fine."

"Can we come with you?" Warren asks hopefully. 

Max shakes her head. "I need you to stay here. Find my parents, tell them... I don't know. Just make something up." 

"But--"

"If I get into trouble, I'll call," she says sincerely. 

Victoria narrows her eyes. "You better explain all of this later."

"I know. And I will." She looks around at them, her breath coming quick. She can see Justin, Dana, Trevor, Alyssa, all of her friends, fear paling their faces. "You need to stay together," she says to Warren. "Go to high ground or the safest place you can find. Don't come out until you hear from me. It's unlikely the storm is actually going to hit here, but I don't want to tempt it--"

Suddenly the pain comes again, a furious tide. The world spins like it's caught in a cyclone and Max clings onto Kate's shoulder to stay upright , screwing her eyes up tight as wave after wave of white heat washes over her. 

Her mind is drowned in another image. This time, she sees herself from a distance. She's at the base of the lighthouse, lightning illuminating the air silvery-green. She's looking up, up, up-- 

And someone is beside her, looking up with her--

Max inhales sharply. Nathan. 

"Max!" There's a hand splayed on her back, fingers digging in. "Yo! Is she okay?"

"She needs to get back to Arcadia," she hears Warren say. "What the hell are you doing here, dude? If they catch you--" 

"All the officers took off because of this storm. Figured the trial was suspended. And like fuck I'm going to stay in that courtroom while a tornado rips it apart." 

Max knows that voice. She raises her head groggily, the pain subsiding as she struggles to let her eyes adjust to the dizzy spin of her surroundings. It evens out eventually, and there's Nathan, as drenched as everyone else, his face close to hers and his voice rough in her ear.

"You have to go back to Arcadia?" he hisses. "Why? What the ever-loving SHIT is going on?"

"You -- You need to come with me."

"What?"

"I saw you, at the lighthouse. I had another vision--"

" _Max_ \--"

"Just go with it," Victoria says. "She's always right." 

"I saw -- I saw us there., in the vision," Max tells him, frantic. "A message from -- from Chloe or, or maybe Dean. I think we can stop this storm, but we need to go  _now._ "

"Okay. Fuck. Okay." Nathan steps closer to her. "Do you, uh, have a ride?"

"I do, actually." She almost laughs, feeling her new keys nestled in her rain-splattered pocket. Finally, some luck when she needs it. 

"Then, Christ, lead the way." 

She breaks into a run, hurtling down the steps of the courthouse, Nathan on her heels. She finds her car, the roof strewn with leaves and twigs. She practically tears the door open to get inside, Nathan sliding into the passenger seat. She can feel the wind and rain battering the sides. It almost cracks the windshield. 

Nathan runs his hands through his damp hair, rain dripping down the sides of his face.

"Why the lighthouse?" he asks, bewildered. 

The dream she'd had, it suddenly makes sense. The memory of it rises like froth to the surface of a coursing river. 

Chloe's hands on her shoulders, as the sky blackened above them.

Her words. 

_Because this is where it started. And this is where it needs to end._

"It's been there, all along," Max says, sticking the key roughly into the ignition. "My vision in Jefferson's class was at the lighthouse, it's where I learned about the first tornado. I And it's where I told Chloe about my powers, and where we went when - when--"

"When you had to make that choice," Nathan finishes. He's looking at her closely, eyes boring in.

"Yeah," Max says, swallowing. 

"Max, you said that this storm... you think it was sent to get rid of my family? Of me?"

"I'm not going to let that happen--"

"No, listen," he grabs her hand across the dash, his fingers as numb and cold as her own. "If that's what it takes to end this shit, so goddamn be it. It can fucking have me. But we have to make them to leave Harry and Kris alone--"

The car is beginning to pick up speed, splashing through deep puddles that spray the road. "That's not going to happen," she hisses. "Nobody is going to die, do you hear me? All this town ever does is take people away. I'm not letting it take you or anybody else, _ever_ again--"

"But--"

"We're going to go up to the lighthouse and we're going to end this, once and for fucking all," Max says harshly. "Arcadia Bay doesn't belong to them, no matter how much they think it does." She turns the wheel hard, sliding around a corner so fast Nathan's hand has to fly out to grip the dash. "They want to keep dictating what we all do? They want to keep giving me bullshit choices, then I'll give _them_ one for once. Get out of Arcadia Bay or else."

"Or _else?_ " Nathan laughs. It's shrill, full of the hysteria of this moment. "Please tell me you have a better plan than that."

"I'll think of it when we get there!"

Nathan laughs again, hands gripping his hair. "Well shit, let's do it then," he says. "Let's take these bastards head on."

Max presses down on the accelerator as they turn onto the highway. It's littered with abandoned cars, whose owners must have fled the second they heard about the tornado.As she weaves carefully through them, windshield wipers working overtime to slice the layers of rainwater away, Nathan reaches over and laces their fingers again.

They stay like that for the rest of the drive, until Arcadia Bay rises up on the misty horizon. The sky is jet black, churning like oil. The battered streets are overwhelmed with collapsed power cables, overturned cars. Holes have been torn from buildings, and from the gaping wounds plumes of black smoke are coughed out. Flames rise from some of the power cables, sparking lethally. People bolt out in front of the car, shrieking and groaning, some limping or supporting others. 

"Jesus Christ!" Nathan exclaims, leaning close to the windshield. "This is unreal. How did the storm get here so fast?"

"This is how it was before," Max murmurs. "Being back in... all of this. It's like a nightmare."

Nathan looks at her. Underneath the obvious terror writ in every line of his face, there is also a burning determination. An anger, almost, at the chaos around them.

"It won't ever be like this again," Nathan says firmly. "Like you said, we'll put an end to this." 

Max parks. In the distance, high above the tumultuous ground, the lighthouse waits. It stretches up to the terrible sky. 

And above it, swirls a cloud of crows. 

 

 


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS 20K??? I'm so sorry??? LOL GOD HELP YOU 
> 
> Also, side note! This chapter deals with Arcadia Bay's Native American population as they are portrayed in Life Is Strange canon. I have to apologize sincerely for any inaccuracies. Any mistakes that are made are not intentional and are in no way intended to be at all malicious. This is just me working off the in-game clues/hints in the canon that already exist, and in no way do I believe the interpretation presented in Life Is Strange canon is wholly representative or reflective of real-life. 
> 
> Next chapter, you shall find a tremendously long author's note in which I try and fail to accurately sum up how truly grateful and appreciative I am of you guys, and the love you've shown this fic. You are all spectacular. I hope you enjoy this one!
> 
> Also, check out this [ SWEET art!!!](http://weavingmemories.tumblr.com/post/159724884418/this-fanfic-is-messing-with-the-sense-of-me). I am in love with it.
> 
> Finally, I listened to [ this song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCwkGrM1AZk) while writing a sizeable chunk of this chapter, so give it a listen if you'd like!

  
  
  
  
When Max stumbles out of the car, the precise second that the sole of her shoe connects with the slippery asphalt, her knees instantly give out. If she had to guess, it's because of pure, undiluted shock. The shock of facing this again. The terror of watching Arcadia Bay burn for the second time.

Her palms slap open on the ground when she lands, and she winces at the stinging bite to her skin. 

"Max!" Nathan grabs her hand, pulls her back to her feet. 

Once upright, she sways, leaning all of her dizzy weight against him. She feels his arm slip around her back, right as her eyes shut. The world spins. Pivots. The sky spins on its axis.

Then, agony comes, hot as hellfire, searing across her mind and whiting out her vision. 

The cry that tears from her mouth is warm and drenched with horror. 

"Max! Shit, stay with me, okay?" 

She can only make a weak, watery sound in response. Her ears are overwhelmed by buzzing, like a swarm of furious wasps have taken nest by her ear drums. Underneath it, she can hear people screaming. Max grips her temples and recoils from the sound. People shouting and yelling for their lives, as scraps and crumbs of cars and whole bites out of buildings hurtle through the air, driven forward by an enormous and deadly tornado that inches ever closer by the minute. 

 _Lighthouse_ , Max thinks, and the word is a single pop of light in the darkness of her mind.  _Get to the lighthouse._

She peels her eyes open, groaning. The chaotic wreckage already spit out by the storm is spread out in front of her, the very worst kind of feast. She takes in endless rubble and demolition, everything the tornado could not swallow. The damage drips with its poison touch, slick with its rain and badly battered by its howling wind. The sky is a black, tossing ocean. It seems to be heaving beneath the force of its own weight. The clouds look ready to plummet. 

The stench of the storm and its destruction clings to all. When Nathan grabs her hands, she can smell it on his clothes. Rain, sweat, smoke and calamity.

"What's wrong?" he pants. "Are you okay?"

"My head," Max manages, her fingers curling in the sodden fabric of his jacket. She coughs, spluttering past a strange and rising breathlessness caught in her chest. She squints her eyes and peers high into the distance, at the jagged bump of the cliffs, and the tall, powerful glow. "The lighthouse--"

"We'll get there," Nathan promises. "Christ, can you walk?"

She tries a step. She stumbles, but at least she doesn't fall again. "Yeah, I think so."

"'Cause I can carry you."

"No, I can do it."

A sudden crash of forked lightning cracks above them, piercing the sky, cooking the air.

Nathan jerks back from the noise, his hand tightening around her wrist. "Jesus! This is fucking serious." He keeps ducking, as if expecting a piece of a roof or the tire of a car to slice his throat at any second. "What did you do before?" he asks her frantically. "When it was like this? What did you do?"

"I-I helped people. Some were trapped," A brief glance at the ruins of this particular street confirms that this time is no different. She can hear people wailing, crying, each hopeless sound muffled and choked, billowing from behind fallen walls and toppled buildings.

Nathan nods. "Should we--?"

"If we can," The words hurt, taste acidic on her tongue. "I wish we could help everyone, but-"

"We have to get up there right fuckin' now, I know," Nathan nods again, more certain this time. "Half of Arcadia is still in Portland. Hopefully this other half can stay alive."

Max can feel the rain in her hair, sluicing off the ends. She drags a hand through it to keep it out of her eyes. "We're going to end this. We have to stop anyone from getting hurt.  _You_  included."

"But Max--"

"Come on.  _Hurry._ " She pulls away from him, ignoring the bewildering wash of loss that comes as a result. "We've got to move!"

Her legs don't fully co-operate at first when she breaks into a clumsy run. The wind has torn craters out of the road, filled them to the brim with bitter rain that Max's shoes keep sinking into. The wet slap of their shoes is accompanied by violent splashing, the angry howl of wind, the pounding drum of the rain and the screams. Max's stomach churns at the awful, bloodcurdling sound. 

She's powerless, this time. If something happens, if she needs to rewind to save somebody's life -- she can't. She won't be able to. Tonight is an army of one-chance-onlys. The knowledge of that sticks in her throat like a fat rock of ice, chills her solid from the inside out. 

"Over there!" Nathan shouts, and suddenly he's bolting, right over to the other side of the road. He drops to his knees outside the smashed-up ruin of Bava's Pizzeria. He whips his head around, calls across the roaring storm. "Max!"

She follows, choking on freezing air. When she catches up, her shoes crack on the shattered glass of the windows. 

Somebody is pinned beneath the debris, shouting for help. Max can see their arms flailing, struggling to escape the weight. 

"Help me clear this shit off," Nathan hisses.

A fat wooden beam keeps the debris in place. Max digs her fingers into the sodden bark, helps Nathan push. It rolls down the side of the rubble, and lands noisily against a sparking power line ripped right out of the ground. 

"Give me your hand, man!" Nathan shouts. 

With the wood gone, a bloodied hand breaks through a gap in the debris. Nathan grabs one, and Max takes hold of the other that pushes through right after. Together, they tug hard, dragging the trapped figure out onto the sidewalk. 

"Hayden!" Max yells. "You're bleeding!" 

He is, quite heavily so, trickles of the stuff leaking in several directions from the wound atop his head. But he's alert, wide-eyed, the whites of his eyes showing. 

"Max!" He looks left, and, if his eyes could pop any further, they'd then be out of his head. " _Nate?_ "

"Long time no see, huh?" Nathan laughs. It's humorless, but laced also with a palpable relief. "Are you okay, bro?"

"You saved me," Hayden says, swallowing. "Shit,  _thank you_."

"Get somewhere safe," Max tells him. "The Two Whales diner. Is it still standing?"

"Yeah. I-I was on my way there when the roof blew out of this place--"

"Get there," Max demands. "If you meet anybody else,  _make_  them follow you And don't come out until it's safe."

"Chill, I'm not going to argue," Hayden stammers, getting shakily to his feet. He moves to go, but reaches out suddenly, grabs Nathan's wrist hard. "What the fuck are you doing here? You're supposed to be..."

"I'll explain later. Fuckin' swear."

"Shit, you better!" 

Max shoves at him. " _Go!_ "

After Hayden takes off, Nathan spins around on his heel, towards the direction of rising hollers and screams. "More people," he says breathlessly. "We gotta help."

Max nods, and races after him.

They help who they can. They have to keep pushing forward up the road, aiding whoever happens to be close enough. Max's blood runs cold every time they have to sprint past a shout or a sob in order to reach a louder, more desperate person. They can't go back, have to keep going. There's no time. The storm is coming fast. She tastes it in the air, it practically vibrates. She feels it coming for them like a burning live wire. 

The police station is obliterated, but there are survivors, racing around in ripped uniforms with bloody skin, trying to help. They're in too much shock to notice Nathan, or if they do notice him, they truly seem not to care. In the path of a deadly tornado, it's understandable.

They stop one cop, and Max tells him about the people they had to miss, and immediately he doubles-back, promises to help. It lightens the dead weight pinning her gut to the ground, if only slightly. 

Close to the wood trail, the frantic barking of a dog leads them down an alleyway. They find the animal limping, next to an overturned, blazing RV. The flames have chewed it up, burned out its soul, but Max would recognize that paintwork anywhere. And that barking dog. 

"Pompidou!" Max drops to her knees in front of him. "Oh my gosh, you poor thing." 

His front paw is cut bad with a deep gash, the fur sticky with matted blood and rainwater. His bark shifts into a high-pitched whine when Max sweeps her thumbs lightly over the wound, trying to soothe him. 

Nathan stares at the fiery remains of the RV. The upholstery is bubbling, the walls melting and concaving into one another. The taste of the ash is overwhelming.

In the flickering, orange light, Nathan is waxy and disoriented.

"Frank," he says. 

Max's stomach twists. She might be sick. " _No_. You don't think...?"

Pompidou tosses his head back in a miserable whine. Max's chest swells at the sound, bursts like a dam, at what it means. 

"Shit," Nathan says. He leans down and curves his hand around Max's wrist, his other curling around Pompidou's collar. Gently, he tugs them both back from the rising walls of flame, shielding his own face from the blistering heat. "Poor bastard."

"Who you callin' a bastard, Prescott?"

A spike of hot shock pierces Max square in the heart. She jerks back, right as Nathan spins.

"There! Behind the RV!" Nathan shouts, and heart slamming through the walls of her esophagus, Max follows.

They find Frank slumped against the far wall of the alley, drenched in sweat and rain and stinking of choking smoke. His right cheek is blooming with a lethal-looking bruise, while blood trickles a forked path from a wound over his right eye. 

Pompidou throws himself at Frank, head-first, whining high and desperate. 

"Frank." All of the breath in Max's body comes rushing out in a hot, dizzy wave of relief. She sinks down in front of him. "I'm so glad you're okay. We thought -- we thought you were--"

"I'm here. Somehow." He gestures at the furious sky, winces at the frosty rain beats down. "What the hell is this shit? Where did it come from? I'm startin' to feel like this town takes everything from me for the fucking fun of it." He sighs heavily, tiredly. "That RV was the only home I've ever known. And now it's gone. Just like that."

"I'm so sorry."

"Yeah. Me too." His eyes fall on Nathan, and his mouth twists into a bitter imitation of a smirk. "Ain't even surprised to see you here, you fuckin' scumbag. It's the second worst day of my life,  _of course_  you're here." A beat of overflowing silence, and then Frank snorts. "Nothin' to say, asshole?"

Nathan swallows. "There's... nothing I could say, man."

"Shit, you're right about that."

"Frank, this is so not the time I wanted to have this conversation," Max says, "but I don't know what the hell is going to happen, so I'd better just tell you now." 

Frank frowns. "Tell me what?"

"We have pretty solid proof that Nathan didn't kill Rachel."

"What?" The words jump-start something in Frank. He immediately tries to stand, but collapses back against the wall with a pained grunt. Max glances down, and notices the strange angle his leg is bent at for the first time.

She gasps. "Your leg--" 

"Fuck my leg. What the hell did you say?"

"It's complicated," Nathan answers. "I was with Rachel, the day she died. And I don't remember anything other than waking up in the Dark Room, feelin' like my head was on fire. She was there, and -- and she was already gone. But I didn't, I could  _never_  remember dosing her--"

Frank struggles to get up again, his eyes flashing viciously. "You sick sonuva--"

"Frank," Max grabs him gently by the arm. "Listen to him."

"Mr. Jefferson was there when I came to," Nathan goes on. "He -- He told me that I did it, that I gave her too much. I believed him, but I never remembered doing it. It's part of why I started to... lose it, over the next few months. And then," he swallows. "Max found this photo."

"Nathan and Rachel are  _both_  dosed in it, bad," Max adds, "It looks like  _Jefferson_  was the one who messed up. We know he'd been after Rachel for a while, and we think he dosed Nathan and took that photo so he could blackmail Sean Prescott. He'd keep getting funding and protection for the Dark Room, and Nathan's help."

"Where is this fuckin' photo?"

"Nathan's lawyer has it. She's literally on the cusp of getting Sean Prescott put behind bars. Forever. And she'll help make sure the same happens to Jefferson."

"Yeah? And what about this rat's ass?" He shakes his head at Max, eyes narrowing. "He  _killed_  Chloe!"

"I'll get what I deserve too," Nathan says sternly. "I fuckin' swear." 

"A Prescott taking responsibility?" Frank laughs shrilly, his face screwing up in a mixture of pain and disbelief. "Christ, I guess there's a first time for everything."

"Frank, you're hurt bad. You have to get to the Two Whales," Max says hastily. "You and Pompidou. It's still standing, there's people there already who can look at your injuries."

"But he can't walk," Nathan points out worriedly. "How do we get him there?"

"Jesus, just leave me here," Frank spits. "What's the point? My home's gone. Rachel's gone. Whole fucking town is falling apart."

Desperation fills Max to the brim. She can't exactly carry him, and they have to get to the lighthouse fast. Her head swivels, eyes searching for the bright, shiny solution to pop out at her. Pompidou whines softly at her knee. 

"Are you seriously gonna pussy out?" Nathan asks.

"Excuse me?" Frank's eyes flash again, murderous. "Say that again, you piece of shit."

"I'm just saying," Nathan goes on, "I thought Frank Bowers was a ballsy motherfucker. You're really going to just sit here on your ass and wait for this storm to take you out?" 

"It doesn't  _matter_ ," Frank roars. His voice cracks hoarsely. His fist comes down hard, cracking against the cold ground. "Don't you get it? I got nothin' left!"

"You have that mutt," Nathan says. "Sure looks like he needs you."

"Frank," Max says brokenly, "Don't throw your life away like this. Rachel would -- Rachel would  _want_  you to get to safety. And she'd want you to live the best life you could."

Frank wipes roughly at the furious tears that slip from his eyes. He rubs so hard, Max expects him to take some skin off. "How the fuck do you keep going?" he asks, voice brittle. "You saw Chloe get shot right in front of you. By  _this_  scum! How do you not feel like the whole world is taking a dump on your life?"

"Who says I don't think that?" Max retorts. "I've been through a lot of shit this year, yes. But I couldn't sit around and feel sorry for myself. Not when I know Chloe would want me to not waste a single minute." 

She knows that's not completely true. Max has had her fair share of lying in bed, of crying herself dry, of staring at the sky and willing it to open, swallow her, and allow her to stop being tormented by all of this. But she made it here, to this point, with blood pounding in her ears and her entire soul driven by a determination to  _win._ And she is certain she never wants to go back to that place again. She doesn't want Frank there, either, sinking into the same quick-sand darkness. 

Pompidou pushes his wet nose against Frank's tear-streaked cheek, whining softly. Frank seems to notice the dog's presence for the first time, his eyes simultaneously widening and softening. His hand lifts, curls in the thick fur at Pompidou's neck.

"Ssh, boy. Good dog. It's gonna be okay."

"We're going to tell the police to come get you," Max tells him urgently. "They'll take you to the Two Whales." 

"Cops helping me?" Frank snorts. "How ironic."

"Frank."

"Alright, shit. I'll wait right here for 'em. Good as fuckin' gold."

Max turns on her heel, looking over her shoulder. She presses her lips together tight. " _Please_  stay safe. I really need you to."

Frank shrugs off the words, uncomfortable, but they get through. "Yeah. You too, kid."

As they sprint to the end of the alley, Frank calls out to them, his hand barely visible over the climbing flames of the RV.

"Prescott!" he roars.

Nathan turns. 

"If we both make it through this shit, I'm still going to kick your ass!" 

"Wouldn't expect anything less!" Nathan calls back. "So don't die." 

And they return to the chaos. 

Evan, Taylor, Courtney, a couple of truckers. One by one, they tug them out of rubble, set them racing and stumbling in the direction of the Two Whales. Max is breathless, exhausted, and worse more, her head is starting to swirl with foggy dizziness again. Black spots keep popping across her vision, tiny blooms of disorientation. 

But it's alright. They're nearing the opening to the woods, and then, the lighthouse. The end of all this, and where it started. Max turns and looks down the chaotic streets they came up through. Arcadia Bay is a beaten, bleeding bruise. Arcadia Bay is engulfed by crackling fire. Arcadia Bay is dying. 

They keep running, until her wobbling knees are threatening to give out again, until her lungs are spasming with smoke and ash, until her throat is licked raw and rasping from the frigid, exploding air. 

Finally, the woods rise just up ahead, a sea of black shadows. The wind whips the trees violently, tossing them forcefully back and forth, a scene from a murky nightmare. Max brings a hand up to cover her face, fearing that one will rip out of the ground at any second. 

The air crackles with more lightning. It raises the hair on the back of her arms, sizzles in her veins. 

There's something else in the air, too. An overwhelming dread. A pulsing foreboding that Max has felt several times before, so much so that she recognizes it instantly every time it comes. She's felt it in every vision, in every nightmare, in the pit of her stomach when she stuck her hand out and reversed time. 

"They're here," Max says tightly. Her voice is unrecognizable, hoarse, dragged over glass. 

"The ancestors?" Nathan rasps. 

She nods, her eyes falling on the distant blink of the lighthouse. The only star in this pitch-black sky. "I can feel it. Like raw electricity." 

A wave of dizziness comes, crashing over her as ocean waves strike sharp rock. Max's eyes crumple shut, and clutching her head she doubles over, crying out. Not in pain this time, but from the brutal force of something that is not her own will, rushing into and filling up her skull. 

A vision comes. As visceral as anything she would see with her eyes open. It bursts in neon color across her mind, demanding to be witnessed. The vision is this: the tossing sea, a sky split by lightning and churning with heavy rain, and a colossal tornado, dragging itself across the water.

And overlooking it, the lighthouse, winking its light. 

When her eyes open, it's jarring. The first thing she sees is not the beckoning sight of the woods, but instead the bottomless black sky, and Nathan's face in front of it. He leans over her, haloed by the sky, breathing hard. 

"Max! Jesus Christ,  _Max!_ "

She sits up slowly, blinking blearily and dizzy. Rain sluices down her face, is constant runoff from her eyelashes. "God. Did I pass out?"

"You could of  _warned_  me. I turned around, and you were just laid out." Nathan's hands find hers, slippy. She is tugged to her feet, and steadied.

Max glances down. His hands are sticky with blood, and peppered all over with scratches and cuts from glass and metal. 

She startles when his palms curve around her cheeks, warm and solid and grounding as the world pulls its walls apart around them.

His eyes are wide, wet, melting. 

"Don't ever do that again," he says, with an expression she's never seen before.

"I can't promise I won't," is all she can think to say, the words tumbling out clumsy and close in the short space between them. "It's -- them. Their... spirit. It's never been this overwhelming before."

Nathan exhales, a puff of warm on her cold-numbed face. He smiles but it's a little broken. "Then can you warn me, next time?"

"I'll try."

He releases her, takes a step back, but doesn't tear his worried gaze from her.

A beat, one that Max uses to gather herself as best she can.

"Are you ready?" she asks him.

"Hell no. You?"

"Nope."

But when she takes a step forward, Nathan follows. 

It is the worst kind of deja vu. It is the very worst recurring nightmare, breathed and brought to life. 

The trees shake and sway, but seem to part for them when they come close enough. Skeletal branches drag across her skin, dig in like nails.

Ahead, above, the lighthouse waits.

And  _they_  wait with it. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Nathan keeps trying to talk to her, talk about  _it. It_ being what they may or may not have to do up on the cliff top, how this may or may not end. Max ignores him. It's easier. She runs ahead, until his words are no more than soft and queit thuds against her back. She's not ready to think about that yet. She's not even ready to do this at  _all_. Part of her is holding onto the hope that this is just another vision, some kind of dream or nightmare that she can wake from. 

The other part of her is deeply glad that it is real. No more nightmares, no more waking up afraid and confused. It's going to end here and now. Whatever cosmic binds grip Arcadia, Max is going to break every single one. Snap each delicate strand like a spider web.

She hadn't though it could rain any harder, but it is, the ice-cold droplets fat and shivering with a too-familiar electricity. She's forgotten how it feels to be warm and dry, her clothes and skin are so saturated and numb. She can't feel anything but the hot, persistent pounding of a fervent heart in an icebox chest, and somehow it keeps her going. 

The woods are so wet, they are practically black. Max sprints with her hands splayed in front of her, ready at any second to collide with a tree or else a cluster of sharp, spindly branches. The woods are dead silent. Eerily so. The wind continues to howl, but it makes no sound around them directly. It feels like running straight at the end of the world. 

The only sounds that Max is aware of are the dry rasp of their breaths, the rhythmic snap of twigs, and crunch of leaves beneath their feet. Every so often one of them will stumble, foot catching on a loose root, but it's the only time either of them slow down.

The path is coming up soon, the same dirt-brown trail that twists up, up, up to the lighthouse. She's seen it so many times, in reality, in dreams, in shadow-soaked visions. It always looks the same. Even on sunny days, the air had breathed with a sense of odd gravity. 

As a child, she had always felt a peculiar energy around the lighthouse. She put it down to imagination, and the fact that little kids easily sense and believe in even the wildest of possibilities. Still, she wishes she had noticed earlier, taken it seriously. 

"Max," Nathan's hand flies out, tries to catch her by the wrist. 

"We're almost there." She shakes him off.

"Hold up a second--"

"Why?"

"Because we gotta talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about," Max pants. "They either break their hold on Arcadia, or -- or--"

"Or  _what?_ "

"Or something. I'll figure it out. I've had a lot of experience thinking on my feet."

A sudden, violently loud  _CRACK_ sends them leaping backwards. Max braces, the way she would if she heard a car brakes screeching. 

"Shit, look out!" Nathan hisses.

He grabs her wrist and pulls, and then they're sprinting again, away from the falling tree that could have crushed them flat. 

"The storm," Max says breathlessly, "it's getting closer."

The wind is picking up, shoving the rain sideways and jostling for room. It won't be long until the force of it sends more trees hurtling to the ground. 

"Come on!" Max pants. 

They break into a run, shoes digging wetly into the chaotic sludge of rain and mud beneath. The incline grows steeper and steeper by the second, and soon, the solid outline of the lighthouse emerges. The light on top spins rhythmically, like the Earth, unhurried. 

Picnic benches are overturned, some of them broken into splinters. Max leaps over them, her breath fogging in front of her face as she reaches the top of the cliff, the base of the lighthouse. 

"Jesus CHRIST," Nathan hollers. "Look at that monster!"

Max turns towards the cliff edge. The tornado is colossal, a thick plume of destruction and chaos. It drags itself slowly across the torrid ocean, orbited by planks of wood and scraps of metal. It hisses, like a vicious animal. And it crawls, like a predator, towards the lighthouse.

"It's different," Max shouts over the howling wind. "Last time, it was headed straight for the town. It's coming for the lighthouse this time!"

"Because  _I'm_  here, right?" Nathan says, and despite his earlier willingness to let the tornado take him, his fear is palpable. Writ in every liquid line of his face. "It's chasing me."

"It's not getting near you." Max spins, stares up at the lighthouse. It's the only structure that they have come upon that is completely untouched. " _Hello?_ " she shouts. 

"Do you expect it to fuckin' talk back?" 

"I don't know! I've never tried talking to a lighthouse before!"

"Damn it." Nathan comes to her side, and starts waving both arms in the air. "Hey!" he roars. "I'm here, you bastards! It's me you want, right?" 

"I don't think calling them bastards will make them listen to--"

A great, warm wind comes out of nowhere. The force of it actually makes Max cry out, it's so unexpected, so...  _swallowing._

It's not like tornado wind. It holds no cold, no rain, no sense of dread. It  _is_  heavy however with the same static electricity, because the hair on Max's arms is definitely rising in response. But it's not aggressive. It's the opposite. It crashes over her like a fat ocean wave and, suddenly...

Everything changes.

Everything... freezes.

Everything in sight blurs, the colors smudged as if by the rain, running off the landscape like watercolor. Max takes a startled step backwards and almost trips, the sight is so disorienting. She whips her head left. Birds are stuck mid-flight. A falling branch hovers just above the ground, suspended totally. 

And the tornado, it's stopped. Like somebody literally hit pause.

But Max, she can  _move_. It doesn't affect her.

She turns, the color draining from her numb face in fright and confusion. 

Nathan is staring up at the lighthouse, and his arms are frozen above his head, mid-wave. Completely motionless. 

 _This has happened before_ , Max thinks, stumbling around in a terrified, clumsy circle. A flashback erupts violently in her mind, flashing by like someone rapidly flipping the pages of a picture book.

_Dormitories. Roof. Kate._

But it's different than the last time. Max has no power, for one thing. She raises her hand and tries experimentally, but nothing happens. It's also easier to move, she's doing so normally. There is no sensation that her mind is about to explode from the pressure of stopped time, trying to kick her skull in. 

She turns, tilts her head back. No rain falls on her skin this time. The droplets merely hover. 

"Nathan," she says, and her voice is  _so loud_  in the horrifying, empty silence.

He doesn't react at all. He's stuck. 

Until.

Until suddenly, a voice comes. 

"Max Caulfield. We need to speak with you." 

No,  _several_  voices. Countless voices, layered, stacked on top of one another and echoing all the same words, in different tones, voices, moods. Practically tripping over each other to be the loudest. They were cold voices, wise and triumphant. 

Max stumbles back, astonished, clutching at her head. It felt as if the voice came from  _inside_  her mind -- but then, it didn't exactly, either. 

The thing is, it's everywhere. In the air, whistling in the wind, quivering the rain and sweat drops on her arms. Max has never felt or heard anything like it before. 

"Are you them?" Max shouts. She doesn't need to yell, but the voice is so powerful in her mind, she feels she needs to roar over it. "Are you Arcadia's first settlers?"

"No."

Silence again. Max waits for them to fill it, her own voice buried in the back of her throat. 

"We are not the first settlers. We came after."

"Are you -- Are you alive?"

"That rests on what you define as alive. We no longer inhabit physical bodies. But, spiritually, on this wider plain that you cannot even begin to comprehend, we are very much awake."

"How are you still here? How are you doing this?"

"Energy, of course. Energy connects and drives and breathes all molecules of the world, both physical and otherwise. We are tied to Arcadia Bay, as a tree is to its root. It is the same energy that tied Rachel Amber and Dean Prescott to this town. The energy that kept them 'alive' after their physical deaths."

"Why... did you freeze everything?"

"We expect this exchange will be lengthy."

Max's heart is barreling up her throat. It feels coated in ice-cold shock. This can't be happening. This can't be real. 

"You're  _not_  the first settlers? " A thousand questions thud roughly against her mind's inner walls, and somehow, that is the first one to slip out. "But, I thought..."

"Our people were the first to set foot on Arcadia Bay, long, long ago, but those particular souls are long at peace. The voices you hear belong to Arcadia's last tribe. The last voices of our time here. In our physical bodies, we were driven from here a little over one hundred years ago."

Max takes a stumbling step forward. " _Why?_ What drove you out? Why are you sending storms like this?" 

The voice seems to pause. In its absence, the silence is deafening, practically smacking Max across both ears. 

"One hundred years ago," it finally continues, "an important promise was broken. Because of that, we left Arcadia and died with overwhelming anger. That anger, that hurt, that  _betrayal_ , followed us after death."

"What made you so angry?"

"The boy you stand beside."

"What are you talking about?"

"He is a Prescott. And it was a Prescott who broke a significant agreement with us, and destroyed absolutely everything that we held dear." 

"After everything I've been through,"Max urges, "I deserve to know what's going on in Arcadia, why things like that storm are even able to happen here.  _Tell me_."

"It is better," the voice replies, "to show you."

" _Agh!_ "

Max's knees hit the ground hard, her fingers clinging to her temples.

It's not pain that bursts across her mind, but a stunning heat. It plunges everything else into darkness, overwhelms her so much she is forced to shut her eyes tight to avoid being blinded.

An image bursts, splashing into color in the darkness.

An ancient-looking letter, stained with faded, neat handwriting. 

"I-I've seen that before!" Max hisses. "That -- That letter--"

The image disappears. The darkness is sucked away, evaporated. Max opens her eyes, but the world still remains on pause. Nathan is still motionless, the storm continues to wait. 

"You have," the voice confirms. "In another reality. You found it in a barn."

Max pants at the blurred grass beneath her feet. "I remember," she says. "It was from a hundred years ago. One of Nathan's relatives, asking for someone to... to pay back some money they owed him, right?"

"Martin Prescott."

Max recalls the name, etched into an expensive grave, lost to time and history. "...Who was he?"

"Most know him as the one who first cemented the Prescott fortune. Before him, the Prescott family were struggling paupers, their role in Arcadia's history revolving around meager trades and poor-paying jobs. After him,  _because_  of him, we witnessed them burst into business tycoons. In a few short years, they were impossibly wealthy. And powerful." A pause. "The Prescotts that came after are his legacy." 

"So he's like some kind of patriarch?" Max asks, still a little breathless. 

"That term is suitable. Yes."

"And he's...?" Max glances at the frozen Nathan.

"He is Nathan's great-great grandfather." 

Max gets slowly to her feet. "What did he... do to you exactly? Aside from go from rags to riches? You mentioned an  _agreement?_ "

The voice pauses again. This one is weighted, heavy with a palpable electricity. 

"When Martin Prescott was born, our people made up a substantial part of Arcadia Bay's population. As explained, we had been there in such numbers for thousands of years. Our connection to Arcadia ran deep. Our souls were its soil, our hearts the pound of the ocean surf. We cared for the land, we felt and breathed its spirit every day. Arcadia Bay became part of us." If it were possible for a voice to smile, Max imagines it would be now. "You understand why we became protective. To care for the land, the town, was to maintain a constant connection to our ancestors. To keep Arcadia thriving was to remember them, and to thank them." 

"I... do understand," Max says, and truly, she does. She knows what it's like, after all, to love something -- someone -- so profoundly, so immensely, that such a swelling love alters all. Can even bend time itself.

"But Martin Prescott... changed that?" she adds. 

The voice changes, sharply so. It takes on a new, serrated edge. 

"Within only a few years of his arrival, he had established himself as a charismatic yet ruthless businessman. He set up several businesses, operated loan services to locals. He built himself a beautiful ranch. Under him, we bore witness as the name 'Prescott' slowly took on new weight in Arcadia. It was now not just a name, but an emerging empire." 

"Go on."

"Under his wealth and influence, Arcadia Bay soon shifted, from a tiny fishing village to a bustling port. The population was rising, new businesses were arriving every day, it seemed, seeking to take advantage of the opportunities Martin Prescott was cultivating." Another pause, heavy with something indecipherable. "It was... inevitable, perhaps, that Martin Prescott ended up approaching us."

"He came to you? Why?"

"He sought to build a new business estate, one, he enthusiastically ranted, would benefit Arcadia enormously. But he lacked the room to do it." 

Max nods to herself, the story pieces slotting into jigsaw-place. "He wanted to expand onto Hopi land, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"And I guess you weren't too happy with that idea."

"On the contrary," the voice returns, and Max blinks. "We welcomed any opportunity that would help Arcadia Bay blossom and grow. But, yes, certainly we did have concerns. The land in question was strictly agricultural. It meant a great deal to us. It supported us, reminded us every day of the hard work and dedication our ancestors had given to Arcadia." 

"But you still made an agreement?"

"We granted Martin Prescott his sought building permission, as well as any future building permission, with one fundamental condition. He was not to harm, destroy or dishonor the land in any way." 

"And he agreed to this?"

"Very much so. Right where you stand, in fact." Max glances down at her feet, as if to see a spare shoe imprint. "We arranged the meeting here, at the lighthouse."

"Why the lighthouse?"

"Back then, it was where our oldest land met the public Arcadia land. We thought it would be an appropriate place to cement this new relationship. A symbol of unity." 

Max feels a throb of sorrow. She can almost taste the memory.

"He swore to us that the land would always be respected. He certainly appeared to recognize our connection to it." The next words are spit, laced with dripping bitterness. "We mistook his determination for honesty. A fatal mistake."

"What happened?"

"Our land was... decimated. Because of all his construction, he made the agrarian terrain infertile. He killed our farms and subsistence plots. Our people were driven off the land we had inhabited and loved for thousands of years. We were pushed to reservations on the outside, which as you know, remain today." 

There is a taste in Max's mouth, like tears. "I'm so sorry. That's  _awful._  That never should have happened to you." 

"Before long, he moved into these woodlands. He cleared vast pockets of trees and habitats, battered the eco-system. We could not watch any longer. So we went to him, and told him that if he continued to bruise and desecrate our land in this way, he would face dire consequences."

"Consequences?"

"We told him that his greed would not go unpunished. We warned that if he did not stop, we would send a great and terrible storm, to undo all his prized work."

Max draws her shoulders back, as if it were possible to brace against words and stop them from piercing her completely. Her ears ring with the final coming of truth and explanation.

"Crucially," continues the voice, "we told him that the storm would not come for him, and not in his lifetime. Instead, it would come in a few decades, when his legacy had been truly cemented. Then, it would not only be his material work we would undo, and take back. The Prescott name, his  _legacy_ , the only thing he cared about, would be obliterated." 

"A curse," Max whispers. The word tastes inky and dark, and falls to the ground in front of her as such, bulky. 

"If you wish to use that term."

"He obviously didn't listen to you."

"No. He did all but laugh in our faces. He continued to kill the woodland, and we watched, knowing his decision had been made. A short while later, on the sacred land that the very first Hopi settlers had first established a home, he and a business associate, Jeremiah Blackwell, built a school. By the time our last numbers passed away, Martin Prescott was dead, but his name had become a deeply hated, and deeply powerful, one."

"What about Harry Prescott?" Max asks. "He built a hospital, a library, gave struggling families money and didn't expect to be paid back. He was a great influence on this town."

"Indeed. Harry Prescott was indeed a profoundly positive influence. We allowed ourselves to believe his good deeds were a form of redemption, so we did not send the storm. Looking back, though, it is likely Harry Prescott was only so kind because he  _knew_  the consequences of being greedy."

"What do you mean? He  _knew_  about the curse?"

"Martin was his grandfather. One day, he was bragging to his grandson about how the Prescott name had become successful and, in doing so, told him about the agreement he made and subsequently broke with us. Martin had joked about it, he was mocking. But Harry Prescott believed. He was right to take it seriously. It saved his life."

"And then, Sean Prescott," Max says fiercely. Her eyes widen, as an obvious fact hits her, so unknowable before but now so  _clear_. "He believed the curse too, didn't he? The bunker that he built, there's enough food and supplies to keep an entire family going for months--"

"The story was passed on, yes, as all arrogant family histories are. Harry told Sean that the Prescott name had to be kept honorable and good, that they could not harm the land in any way, or else he firmly believed we would send the storm."

Max's hands clench to fists. "Obviously, he took the story less seriously."

"Sean passed the story onto his eldest, Dean, when the boy was in his early teens. Dean did not believe it in life, he assumed it was a teasing joke. But in death, as you certainly have come to know, he believes it very much. He has been trying to stop us." 

"Did Sean build the bunker for Jefferson or because he knew he had pissed you guys off with Pan Estates?"

"The bunker was built primarily with surviving our storm in mind. He recognized its secondary potential when he contacted Mark Jefferson." The voice seems to scoff. "Sean Prescott trusts his bunker. He believes he can survive our storm by taking refuge in it. He even thinks, that he can build on his fortune when the storm passes, by returning to build Arcadia back from the ground up. As Prescott Bay. He believes this to be the Prescott destiny. To outrun our storm, to never endure the consequences of greed, to continue to exert power."

"So he built the bunker because--"

"Arrogance," the voice states. "He believes it can protect him. From us. He is wrong."

"Please," Max's fingernails bite into her palm. "I understand everything you've told me, and you have every right to be angry and vengeful. But you can' kill the Prescotts tonight. We got Sean arrested. He  _needs_  to go to prison. No one gets any justice if he just dies."

"But we do. Every moment he spends alive is an insult to us. The consequences of Prescott arrogance and greed are now over a century old. We will not wait any longer. Our unfinished business with them is what keeps us here, bound to this town. We are tired."

"I still have so many questions," Max drifts slowly forward, her neck aching now from how long she's been craning it upwards. "You have to tell me about -- about  _everything_.  _Why_  me?" The words come out with more severity than she means. The confusion of months, manifesting as a vicious bite. " _Why_  did I get my powers that day in the Blackwell bathroom? Did I get them from you?"

The voice hums.

"No."

"No?" Max blinks, blankly. She was unprepared for such a response. "It  _wasn't_  you? Then who?"

"Your powers came from Chloe Price."

Another vision comes. Pushed into her mind, stuffed by invisible prodding fingers.

Max's eyes clamp shut. 

An image erupts, thrown like splattered paint across the black canvas of her mind. An image that she knows so well now, she could realistically draw it from memory. 

 _A bathroom. A gun. Nathan. Chloe_.

A delicate blue butterfly. 

It flutters its wings, and then disappears.

Max's eyes open slowly. 

"I-I don't understand," she whispers. "That butterfly--"

"You understand the workings of spirit animals, do you not? Of souls?" 

"Yes, but--"

"The very first time you witnessed Chloe Price get shot, the  _first_ time, you did not know she was Chloe Price. You did not recognize her. Correct?"

"Y-Yes."

"Imagine then, an alternate scenario. What would have happened if your powers had not manifested that very first day? What would you have  _felt_ , later, when you found out the person you saw get killed in front of you was in fact a close friend?"

"I-I would've been  _horrified_ ," Max says. Her eyes are stinging again, insistently. "Jesus, what kind of question is that? I would have -- I would've felt--"

"Regret? For not getting in contact with her over the past five years, and now, she is dead?"

"Yes," Max says weakly. "But please. What happened that day? What does the butterfly have to do with it?"

"The energy that thrums through this town comes as a result of our presence, of the sheer power of our spiritual beliefs. If we were gone, Arcadia would be an ordinary town. But because of us, because of the emotions that bound us here after death, the supernatural is welcomed and given room to assert itself. Spirit animals are an example. Spirit animals are given the ability to manifest and navigate Arcadia Bay, as they would not be able to do elsewhere. Spirit animals are... extensions, of our souls. Our people have always believed our souls are attached to a spirit animal, and that they guide us down the path of life. They teach us, walk with us. In many instances, they also protect us."

"You're saying..." Max squints, "It was the butterfly? Chloe's spirit animal, that gave me those powers?"

"Yes. Why do you think that was?"

"Because..." Her mind quivers with the force of her concentration. "...It was protecting her? It wanted me to save her?"

The realization of how this all makes sense, of how she should have pieced all of it together before, leaps around in her brain, excited and eager to learn more. 

"No."

Max frowns.

"But--"

"Your powers were never about saving Chloe. They were never about saving anyone." 

"Then why the hell give them to me?  _Why?_ "

"The answer as to why you received time abilities, is, actually incredibly literal."

"Well, I'm not seeing it.  _Tell me_."

"You got them to... literally,  _have_  time. Have it at your fingertips. Chloe Price's spirit guide did not wish her to be saved. It understood the consequences of altering such a destiny. What it wanted, was in fact this: for Chloe Price to have five special days with you, her closest friend, to feel loved, to feel wanted. Do you remember what she said to you? At the end?"

That same irresistable force pushes Max's eyes shut. Again, colors explode in her mind's eye, leaking together and forming a picture. Only this time, the picture  _moves_. It shakes itself alive, bursts with noise. 

" _Max, you finally came back to me this week. And you did nothing but show me your love and friendship. You made me smile and laugh, like I haven't done in years._ "

The memory dissolves. Max's eyes open, but the reality in front of her is hot and blurred. It's only then she realizes she's crying. Reality hits her like a shock of ice water.

"Because of you, Chloe Price died knowing she had never been abandoned. She died knowing she was loved."

Max is shaking. Her heart feels full, but not of anything good. It is heavy, a stone dragged to the bottom of the ocean. 

"Giving you control of time in Arcadia Bay would leave us with little choice but to send a storm, to obliterate the imprint of the altered timeline and start fresh. The butterfly, the spiritual manifestation of Chloe's soul, knew this. It knew Chloe Price's fate was to die that day. Nonetheless, it wanted to fix the pain of her father's death, of your leaving, of Rachel's disappearance. If only in a brief yet irreplaceable moment."

"A butterfly landed on Chloe's casket," Max says, voice wet and trembling. "At her funeral."

"Yes."

"And I knew it was her."

The voice hums in a soft, affirmative way. "She is at peace."

A thousand different emotions course through every cell in Max's body, taking her apart and putting her back together. She keeps replaying the words, the truth that has finally landed at her feet. She imagines herself sinking to her knees and clawing all of those words in, gathering them up in her arms and keeping them close forever. They throb with sorrow and warmth, of understanding and frustration. 

"Wait," she says slowly, "before I even saved Chloe, that first day, I  _still_ had a vision of a tornado. In Jefferson's class. She looks up. "You were sending a storm that week anyway, weren't you? That was the Prescott storm. To kill them." 

"Yes. We decided the storm was due to finally come on October 11th."

"But when I went back to the start again, when I let Chloe die and Nathan got committed," Max says confusedly, "you didn't send any storm that week. Nothing happened on October 11th. You made me think it was over. Why?"

"Dean Prescott," answers the voice. "He convinced us your... chosen fate for those around you, and your investigation of the Dark Room, was a more fitting way to destroy Sean Prescott's influence. So, we held off. We were curious, to see what you would do."

A memory rises, bursts like a firework. 

Graffiti, staining a wall. 

 

_OUT OF TIME. SORRY._

_THEY ARE IMPATIENT, BUT I'LL DO WHAT I CAN._

 

"We followed your progress," the voice adds. "We were impressed that in just a few months, you had successfully unraveled the secret web of Jefferson's Dark Room. By the time this trial of Nathan's had begun, Dean was adamant you would succeed in getting his father arrested."

Max gestures around them, almost exasperated. "So why the hell is this happening? Why did you send the tornado anyway?"

"Your investigation revealed to us the true extent of his evil. Such evil is taught. We realized the likelihood of his children following the same greedy, exploitative path was tremendously high. We could not sit back any longer. The time to intervene had come."

"Why did Dean not move on when he died?" Max asks. "How was he kept here, like you were?"

"He died unexpectedly, with a lot of pain and regret. Similarly to us, Dean Prescott had unfinished business. In death he realized the truth about the curse, and refused to move on until he had warned you about the Prescott storm."

"But what  _happens?_ " Max inquires. "How is that even possible?"

"You should know by now, Max," says the voice, almost wryly, "anything is possible in Arcadia Bay." It pauses. "The physical vessel of the body is left, but the soul remains, here in spirit. Essentially, it is trapped between two worlds. It is neither living... nor completely dead."

Max gasps. "Is that what happened to Rachel Amber?"

"Yes. As Dean's anger at his father trapped him between both realms, Rachel Amber's determination to expose Mark Jefferson and the Dark Room paused her. It is how she was able to contact you. Those who have moved on have no ability to pierce the physical world, but those trapped between both can."

"Rachel contacted me?"

Another image. A doe, with a shimmering outline, lifting its head.

"The doe," Max says, with some awe. "So that really was her."

"Yes. She also wrote you messages, as Dean did. I'm sure you would recognise hers, if you went back and purposefully looked."

"If they're trapped between... two worlds," Max says, barely able to believe the words coming from her own lips, "then what happens when their unfinished business is done? Do they... move on?"

The voice hesitates. "They have an important choice. They can either move on to the final resting realm, or else, we... reward them."

"Reward them?"

"We are able to construct for them an alternate reality, much like the ones we created for you, when you rewound time. In these alternate realities, they are granted life again. But they have no memory of their previous reality. As far as they're concerned, the reality they now live in is the one they were born in. Not deliberately placed." 

"You can  _construct_  realities?"

"You did the exact same thing, Max. Because here, Arcadia is bathed in energy that allows for such a thing." The voice makes an affirmative sound. "You were not  _rewinding_  time. Not really. You were... branching time. Every choice you made, every use of your power, you were making the timeline split. Always hopping realities. Arcadia Bay is a spiderweb and you travelled every singular thread. You saved Chloe Price, and in doing so, we had to shift you into a new alternate reality where that was possible. To you, it felt like rewinding. In truth, you were just moving realities."

"But--"

"We are not deities, Max. We do not create whole, new worlds at the snap of a finger. Like what you did, the alternate realities that we make are just extensions of this original reality, with differences."

"So Rachel's in one of your other realities?" Max gasps. "Is that where you sent her, when we found her body? When Jefferson was arrested?"

"No. It was a  _curious_  thing. Rachel, instead, chose to move on. Watching you and Chloe's investigation made her realize that she wished to be at peace."

"So she's...?"

"At peace."

"And Dean?"

"He was able to warn you about the storm, resulting in his father's arrest. We presented him with the choice."

"Has he decided?"

"He has chosen to live on elsewhere. We will be sending him to a new reality very soon, a reality where Dean Prescott never died and he, nor anyone else, is any the wiser."

"But you want to destroy the Prescotts," Max argues, "won't they be alive in this other new timeline?"

"He will receive a new family, and know no different. The Prescotts will not exist anywhere else after we are done tonight. Only here, will their memory remain."

"Have you told Dean about that part?" Max asks, horrified.

Pause. "He will be on his way soon. There was no need to upset him."

This feels wrong, Max realizes. With every word, the voice grows more unstable, the voices no longer clumsily toppling over each other but now elongating, rising, sharpening. It is difficult for her to imagine them as people once. They no longer sound human.

Vengeance has done this. Max stares up and the lighthouse and every one of her senses ripples with the realization that these ancestors have been affected by time, by their tormented binding to a world that they should have long moved on from.

No tribe Max has ever known talks like this, or believes in such bloodshed.

They've become corrupted.

She has to stop them. Whatever they once were, that is long gone.

"It is unfortunate that his warning to you here was not enough," the voice muses. "After all, the Prescotts have known of the storm for decades. They know they cannot outrun us." 

Max turns, stares at the frozen tornado, stuck into the ocean like an icicle of horror.  

Her hands ball to fists.

"You're not hurting anyone," she hisses. "Not a soul."

"You will not be harmed. Neither will any innocent. It is the Prescotts we have sought for the past hundred years."

"Bullshit."

"We heard your conversations," the voice goes on, unperturbed. "Nathan is willing to sacrifice himself for his siblings."

"If you heard our conversations, then you also know there's no way I'm letting that happen."

"We presumed you would understand. This is a fair consequence of fate." 

"Your idea of fate is  _never_  fair! If it was, Chloe's fate wouldn't have been to  _die_  at eighteen!" 

"You may not believe it, but we have no control over fate. The answers to why things happen, why some people must die and why others live, that is beyond even our comprehension. All we do," the voice says, "is make sure that pre-destined fate comes to pass. We guide, we protect. You saw what happened when you tried to rewrite fate. The universe cannot handle going off course. We had to intervene. For its own sake, we unraveled Arcadia." 

"I understand that," Max says bitingly. "But look around! Look at what you're doing with these storms! Arcadia has already been destroyed, by  _you!_  You should have moved on when you died. You're messing with the natural laws of the universe by staying here. Because you're here, making realities, using whatever mystic energy you have,  _you're_  making Arcadia bend to you." She frowns coldly. "Your own ancestors would have wanted you to move on. This is crazy! You don't get a say in how Arcadia Bay's destiny unfolds, not anymore."

"If not us, then who?"

" _Us_. We do. The people who are alive, living here. We can take responsibilities for our own mistakes. Yes, Arcadia is suffering right now, but we can turn it around. It's our home too."

"You truly believe that?"

"Yes, I do," Max states. "There will always be greedy people, people who take good things and destroy them. But there's  _always_  better people, who stand up and fight back. I'm sorry that Martin Prescott did that to you. But that doesn't mean you get to punish Nathan for his mistakes. If you ask me,  _that's_  also messing around with fate. If the universe was really so dead-set on one path, it would have folded in on itself the second Nathan got arrested, and not killed by your storm."

The voice does not answer. In the silence, Max feels a swell of courage.

"A few months ago, the idea of getting Sean Prescott arrested was equal to a  _joke_. And we had nothing, except for the hope that we might actually do it. And  _we did_. With Nathan's help. We're going to send Sean to prison and he's going to suffer for the rest of his life in a tiny cell." She takes a step forward. "You act like the Prescotts are invincible, like you're our only hope, but they aren't and you aren't. They're just... people. And Sean can be beaten.  _We_  proved that. We  _don't_  need you to protect us from them. We can stand up for ourselves. We already have.  _We're_  ending Sean's control over Arcadia."

Max keeps moving forward. The corners of her vision are... moving. She could swear she feels the wind on her face again, the cold pierce of the rain.

"I think your real problem," Max says, and her voice is rising now, laced with confidence. "Is that  _you know_  Arcadia doesn't need your protection anymore. It doesn't want your connection or your energy because it's become tainted, because you didn't move on. Look around! Look at what you've done.  _We_  need protection from  _you_."

"I've seen what holding onto anger does to people," Max goes on, "it destroys, from the inside. That's what's happened to you. You've lost sight of the fact you can't intervene in reality like this. You _have_  to let go of it--"

Time kick-starts itself, like a violent engine. From a suspended slumber, the world abruptly roars back to life, and Max staggers backwards in surprise. 

The sudden noise is overwhelming. Her hands come up to her ears, to shield from the furious howl of the tornado, slithering across the black, thrashing sea. The batter of the furious rain is an electric shock, sucking her back to reality. 

"Max!" Nathan grabs her hand, so damp from the rain their fingers slip uselessly against each other. 

"Nathan! Holy  _shit_ , you missed it--"

"Missed what?" He roars. "Fuck, this storm is practically on us!"

"Nathan, you have to listen to me. I talked to them. Y-Your family  _is_  cursed--"

"Yeah, no shit!"

"No, I mean, God," Max pushes her hair frantically out of her eyes, struggles to see him through the sheets of rain. "Did your father ever tell you about a Martin Prescott?"

Nathan frowns. "Uh, briefly? He started everything, like my father's main business. But that was a century ago--" 

"Did he ever say anything about breaking an agreement with the Native Americans?"

" _What?_ " Nathan fixes her with a stunned look. "What are you talking about?" 

She can taste her own throat, the cold, coppery rasp of it. Fear grips her, fuses her bones together. 

"Nathan," she whispers, raw. "I-I don't know what to do. I don't think I can stop them."

She expects him to disagree, to vehemently shake his head or urge her to believe the opposite.

Instead, he just watches her, and when Max sees the resigned understanding creeping over his features, she knows they really are out of luck.

"What happened?" he asks quietly.

She tells him, as fast as she can, as loud as she can. The words taste of her failure, her shock. 

And as Nathan listens, his face breaks open, breaks apart.

"A curse," he murmurs. 

"Maybe we can get to the bunker," Max says, and she knows she's babbling, knows that it suddenly feels like someone has scrubbed her heart out with steel wool. "It might be safe--"

"No," Nathan says.

"But--"

He shakes his head. "We're not doing that. No."

" _No?_ " she hisses. "It's the only option!"

"Are you sure about that?" Nathan gives her a thin little smile, and gestures towards the storm, ripping up whole buildings. "Because I see the way to end it, right there."

The shock of the words is worse than the rain. "I am  _not_  about to let you die!"

"Well, tough shit, Caulfield. You're going to." He's turning from her, eyes fixed on the lighthouse. 

Max jumps at the hot spill of tears that come rushing from her eyes. They sting the numb parts of her skin. " _No_."

He grabs her shoulders. "Tell 'em to take  _me_ , okay? Only me. They have to leave my brother and sister alone. And my parents." His fingers dig into her collarbone. "My dad's a scumbag piece of shit, but if he dies, it's an easy way out."

" _Nathan_ \--"

" _Tell_  them! Please."

Max hiccups out a sob, and turns slowly to look up at the lighthouse. The brightness burns her streaming eyes. 

"Did you hear that?" she shouts, voice cracking. "Take him." 

But there is no answer. It makes Max angry, for some reason. 

Nathan nods at the tornado, as if it were capable of staring at him. His eyes burn with a resolve that almost knocks her backwards. 

"It's coming," he says. "Look, it turned course a little. They heard you. It's definitely coming for me."

"There has to be something else!" Max cries. "Something we haven't tried, or -- or--"

Nathan pulls her against him, wraps his soaked sleeves around her back and presses his mouth against her hair. "There's not," he says.

"Don't do this." She shoves at him weakly. "I don't want you to do this."

"Do what?"

"Do the whole, stupid,  _fucked-up_  goodbye thing. It's bullshit. I already had to do it with Chloe. I can't do it again, I  _won't_ \--"

Nathan smiles, soft and broken. "Well, pretend we're back at the hospital then. In the fucking garden, under the sun. And I have something to tell you."

He's quiet for a moment. He opens his mouth several times, only to close it again, like a bewildered fish.

"You know I fucking suck at this," he says hoarsely. "But hear me out." He takes in a deep breath through his nose. "Thank you."

Max shakes her head slowly. The words strike her as ridiculous. Why thank her, when she's gone and messed everything up again? When she's tried and failed, yet again, to save a friend's life.

"For what?" she whimpers. 

"For everything.  _Everything_. I mean, Jesus." He stares at her like she's something indecipherable. "The shit you've done for me, it's, next level. And I don't mean just helping with me my father, or putting up with my horseshit. I really mean everything. I-I don't even recognize the person I used to be, and I don't ever, ever want to fuckin' go back there, because of you. Max, you made me -- you  _make_  me feel..."

It hurts to breathe, but Max inhales shakily anyway. "What?"

"Less worthless. Like less of a mistake. Like I didn't fuck up everything I encountered. I actually got something right." He lifts both shoulders, presses his lips together as his eyes clash with hers. "I just... fuck. I just want you to know you're kinda the best thing that's ever happened to me."

"Nathan?"

"Yeah?"

She steps close, until there is only a tiny gap of space between them. "Tell me something."

Nathan smiles, despite the fact it seems to hurt him. He leans in, and closes the distance. 

Someone's breath hitches. Max doesn't think it's her, but then her mind is spinning so much right now, it could as well be. She digs her fingers into the base of his neck and tries to understand why it took so long to do this again, when their mouths fit and move together like they were always supposed to. What begins as soft turns open-mouthed and desperate.

Max hates how, as wonderful as it feels, how much it also feels like goodbye. She tries to memorize every point of contact, where his left hand presses hard against her lower back and his other curves cold around her cheek, thumb sliding feather-soft beneath her jawbone. 

They pull away, only to dive back in. 

Until the wind becomes too frenzied to ignore, and they're forced to step apart. Max's mouth is tingling, her heart slamming faster than she ever thought possible. 

"Thank you," Nathan says again. 

"Nathan," Max takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I--"

Her words are drowned out. An airborne restaurant sign collides violently with the top of the lighthouse. It's a startling bright blue a star shape, advertising  _Galaxy Grub._ The sound it makes when it slams into the glass is deafening. Nathan leaps backwards, drops her hand as the light atop the structure shatters and plunges into darkness. Glass rains down from above and Max shields her face, bracing herself against a sudden electric wind.

The tornado will be here soon. 

In minutes.

And, out of nowhere, the voice suddenly floods her mind. 

"The debt has been paid," it says, sounding satisfied, and it  _enrages_  Max. "It is time to depart. We wish you well, Max."

"Wait,  _don't_ \--"

Another memory thrusts into her mind. Max lets out a cracked cry, falling to her knees with the force of it.

Against the darkness, bursts more graffiti. The words leak like wet paint. 

 

_you will hear of a dwelling-place in the heavens, above the earth, that shall fall with a great crash. very soon after this, the ceremonies of my people will cease._

 

The image fades, the black spreads over her eyelids again. Max yells, not from any pain but from the desire to get to her feet and stop whatever is happening. She hears crashing, a furious hissing wind. She thinks she hears Nathan's voice, calling her. He sounds faraway. 

Something hits the ground near her and the gust it brings knocks her flat. She spits wet grass, tries to open her eyes, tries to see--

But the invisible hands keep them shut. 

Another image is coming, impossibly bright. 

This time, the picture that comes does so gently, as a hand would lift in a soft wave. 

Max sees this:

Dean Prescott stands, lit by the glimmering halo of summer sunlight, beneath a warm blue sky. A tranquil sea stretches out behind him. Max gasps and tastes the salt of ocean spray.

He looks nothing like he did at death. His skin is tan and dusted with freckles, and the smile that spreads across his peaceful face is tinged with the oddest echo of melancholy.

He opens his mouth and speaks, and Max feels the words everywhere. They knock her bones together.

"Thank you."

The sight is wiped away, as if someone roughly dragged a cloth across it. The colors smudge and blend together, before they disappear into the darkness completely, taking Dean Prescott with them.

Max leans her throbbing forehead against the cool grass. Something is on her legs, pinning them down. She's exhausted, her limbs ache like she walked a thousand miles. She tries to peel open her eyes, but she's tired, so tired. 

She finally gives up, allows them to stay shut.

The last thing she hears is the lighthouse collapse, and catch flame. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

After an epoch, made up of dark minutes or hours, Max's eyes tear open. 

Immediately, she coughs, and coughs hard. She sucks in a breath and the taste of smoke and ash is overwhelming, coating her tongue. She splutters, eyes streaming, and feels her body twist on the ground. She's lying on grass, her cheek sticky with mud. There is heat against her back. Her vision is blurry, but slowly adjusting. Colors come forward, one by one. Gray, green, brown. 

She lifts her head, wincing at the searing crick in her neck. 

It's still night. There is no light, and all is bathed in black. 

But it's quiet. So quiet.

Max's stomach twists, then lifts. 

The storm is over. 

_Nathan._

She scrambles upright, adrenaline shooting through her in hot spikes. 

"Shit!" The curse slips loose, the moment she becomes aware of a dull ache pressing her legs to the ground. She twists into sitting position. A chunk of the lighthouse lays heavily across her lower legs. 

She pushes as hard as she can, and it tumbles sideways, right off the cliff. She doesn't wait around to hear it break on the rocks below. 

Max moves slowly, carefully, rubbing her aching ankles. She gets her knees under her, blinks hard to force her eyes to wake up. She looks wildly around, taking everything in.

The spot where the lighthouse should be looks surreal and bare without it. The rubble left behind is everywhere, scattered all over the cliff. Parts of it are even stuck in the treetops, causing the wood to bend at strange angles. The bench where she and Chloe had once sat, where Max has sat and pondered so many times since, is nothing but crushed splinters. 

Flames lick the spot where the lighthouse once sat, trying to clean the damage away. They aren't too big, but the heat from them is palpable. Max leans towards the crackling warmth and realizes she's shivering, or shaking. Both, maybe. She swallows and her throat stings in response, dry and early-morning hungry. 

"Nathan!" She croaks. " _Nathan!_ "

There is no answer. 

She can't see him. Anywhere. 

Blood is whooshing through her ears, accompanied by a whistle-high ringing. 

Her phone, Max realizes. With trembling hands she digs into the pocket of her dress, icy fingers closing around the source of the noise and vibrations. In the dead air, the heavy silence, it's too loud.

Her mind is whirling so much that, momentarily, she forgets how phones work. She stares blankly at the illuminated screen, the only light around, her fingers poised over keys she doesn't understand anymore. 

The ringing stops.

There is ten second impasse.

It starts up again.

This time, it seems louder, fiercer. It snaps her into action.

"H-Hello?"

" _Max!_ " It's Kate, her mouth pushed right up against the receiver, voice soggy with panic. "Where are you? Are you okay? What's -- Are you -- It's been  _hours_  since we heard from you!"

Max opens her mouth slowly. No words will come. She can't summon any. 

She looks around, time dragging in agonizing slow motion.

She is alone. Nathan is gone. 

She is alive, and he is not.

She imagines a savage gust of tornado wind knocking him sideways off the cliff, or the winds hurtling something to crush his head, and feels a wave of nausea. 

Max drops the phone, Kate's voice rising to a shout on the other end. Max falls to the side of it, fingers curling in the grass, and proceeds to dry retch. There's no food in her stomach, nothing will come up except her own painful breath and shocked, miserable spit. 

She leans forward, presses her forehead against the cool grass and shuts her eyes. A swollen sob expands her throat, but it won't come out, either. It's choking her. Tears prick her eyes and spill over.

"Give me the phone," she hears from the grass, right by her ear now. 

"But--"

There is a scuffling sound, and within seconds, Victoria's voice bursts from her phone.

"Caulfield, say something right fucking now." Victoria is commanding and stern, but if Max was able to focus right now, she'd swear she could detect some panic concealed underneath. " _Hello?_  Answer me!"

"Is she...?" And there's Warren, his voice jostling for room through the receiver. He sounds... like she's never heard him sound before. Small and scared and  _definitively_  not Warren-like. 

"Of course not," Victoria snaps, poisonously. A pause, brimming with tension. "But if she doesn't  _ANSWER_  me right freakin' now--"

Lungs heaving, Max's hands slide across the grass and lift the phone to her ear.

"I'm here," she manages, teeth chattering. "Somehow." 

Static explodes from the other end, as everyone within earshot seems to breathe a sigh of relief. 

Max doesn't know what the hell they're so relieved about. 

She's failed. Arcadia Bay has taken, with its greedy hands. Again.

"Max," Warren says, voice brittle. "It's been hours. Shit, we thought -- we thought you were--"

"I'm okay." She pushes herself backwards onto her knees. "And I'm so glad you guys are. W-Where are you?"

"We all took cover in the courthouse," Kate answers, "it seemed the safest place at the time. But the storm... Max, right after you both left, it... was like it went with you."

"Yeah," Max tastes the aftermath of her retching, bitter and acidic. "And when we got to Arcadia, it was already waiting for us. Are my parents okay?"

"They'll be better when you get your ass back here," Warren says. "I tried to explain, but... it's a lot. I don't think they heard much of what I said. They basically think you just took off."

"Max," Victoria says slowly, almost reluctantly, as if someone else is forcing her to say these words. She pauses and it feels like the whole world waits to continue turning on her permission. "Is Nathan with you?" 

The words, they're in her stomach, rising like bile up her throat but they won't  _come out_. 

"Max?" Victoria's voice rises, a little hysterically. 

"Are Harry and Kristine there?" Max whispers.

"Yes," Kate says. "They're fine. They're together. Kristine's spent the past couple hours trying to get a hold of Sean."

"The bastard just disappeared," Warren murmurs.

Victoria's swallow is audible. "Max. Why did you ask that?  _Where is Nathan?_ "

"I guess Warren filled you guys in," Max says, hoarse. "On - On everything."

"Yes and if I'd known about all of that shit, I never would have let you guys go," Victoria hisses. "But you fixed it, right? Told these ancestors to screw off?  _Right?_ "

"They were... not really the ancestors," Max replies. She shuts her eyes, sucks in a breath. She can still taste the storm, though it's vanished. "I mean, they were, but... time, and the energy binding them to this town, it corrupted them _._  Who they were, who they used to be, that got lost somewhere along the way." 

"Were?" Warren repeats. "So you did it? They're gone?"

And his words make Max realize something. 

The full air, the watchful, swelling atmosphere, the general thrumming sense of  _Arcadia_  that always hung present and heavy over this town for as long as she can remember... it's gone. Or changed. It's definitely different. 

These woods buzzed with a soft mysticism that tingled up Max's arms from the time she was a child. It had always felt like a thousand eyes, constantly pinned, watching. Following.

Now, it feels...

Empty. Ordinary. Mundane to the point that she notices it. 

"They're gone," Max answers. "I feel it. You probably will too, when you get back here."

"Holy shit,  _alright!_ " Warren exclaims, suddenly bright again. "So get back here, then. You sound exhausted."

"Put Nathan on the phone," Victoria demands.

That's when, finally, the sob tears itself out of Max's throat. 

" _I can't._ "

Her eyes burst their banks. The tears don't stop, once the flow begins.

Max feels raw. All over. A vicious open wound. "I'm so sorry," Max hiccups, "I-I tried to..."

"No," Victoria answers, at the exact same time Kate breathes out a, " _Oh my God_ \--" and Warren murmurs " _Holy shit_ ".

"H-He's gone. I tried, but they wouldn't listen. And he wouldn't listen either. He -- He--"

"No," Victoria answers, immediate and firm. "No. Max. You aren't -- whatever the fuck you're about to say, don't."

"I'm sorry," Max sobs. "I'm so sorry. I tried, I really tried--"

"No. This isn't happening." Victoria's voice sounds faraway now, distancing from the phone with every second. Retreating. "No. This is bullshit."

" _How?_ " Kate rasps, her voice wet and shocked. "Why?"

Max chokes out something about a hundred-year sacred agreement and a consequent curse, but she's certain none of it sounds even remotely intelligible. She stumbles over her sopping words, fights to breathe at the heaving, burning pain spreading across her chest. 

"He did it so that they wouldn't hurt Harry or Kristine," she finishes, hand splaying across her rib cage, because it really feels like this overwhelming sensation is about to flood out of her. Drown her in its desolation. 

"This isn't  _happening!_ " Victoria's in the background still, but screaming now. 

"Max, I'm sorry," Kate says shakily. "I-- I am so, so sorry."

"It's not fair," Warren says. "It's not fucking fair at all."

"I'll tell Kristine, when I get back," Max says slowly.

"And... Harry?"

She swallows. "I'll tell him as well."

"Fuck," Warren says, and  _yes_ , Max thinks,  _that about sums it all up_. 

"You shouldn't drive back," Kate says hastily. "It's already dark, and the roads out of Arcadia are going to be all torn up. Plus, you're... in no state to be driving, Max."

Max feels...  _in pieces_. Billions of them, jagged and sharp as glass. She imagines herself falling apart, right here on the grass, at the beginning and ending of Arcadia Bay. She pictures herself melting into cells, atoms; into a consciousness no bigger than a speck of dust or grain of sand. The pain shredding her insides would probably overwhelm her. She'd dissolve. 

"I can make it," she says. Warren instantly tries to argue, and Max blinks back pained tears. "For real. Stay with Victoria."

"Of course," Kate says, raising her voice over Warren's disgruntled protests. "Please. Drive safely."

"I will. And Kate?"

"Yes?"

"Tell Carmin what happened." Max shudders. "She -- She needs to know I'm coming back alone." 

"I will."

Max hangs up, and the silence engulfs.

She crumbles. She falls forward, forehead smacking harshly against the grass, and she lets out every sob that threatens to crack her ribs. She is in physical pain, her throat unable to keep up with the speed nor panicked, horrified gasp of her hyperventilation. The result is a sickly sound, the noise of a heart, already badly wounded and bound with band-aid after band-aid, falling apart once again. 

The sounds of the flame crackle in her ears and Max's fingers bite into the soft, heaving soil. She wishes she could burrow down deep, disappear forever. But she can't do that. That wouldn't help anyone. Chloe would be so disappointed.

She gets to her feet, squints her sore, puffy eyes and wonders where the hell her car keys are. A part of her honestly doesn't give a shit. She'll walk, if she has to. She'll move through the broken wreckage of Arcadia, and try and understand what's happened. She needs to see. It's the only way any of this will feel real.

Max turns, observes the ruins of the lighthouse. 

The flames lick over the rubble with a palpable degree of stern finality. 

It's over. Forever. 

Arcadia Bay is just another nowhere town. It's the town it should have always been. 

Mundane. Unstimulating. Void of anything but rationality and common sense.

Max takes a stumbling step forward, equivalent to a baby's first step. Her foot catches on a cold chunk of lighthouse, kept hidden by the grass, and she proceeds to land hard on her knees. She sobs again, out of desperation more than anything, her breath breaking the pressing weight of silence. 

She looks down, hand fumbling for the offending scrap of metal. She turns it over in her hands. It must have flown off when the lighthouse came down, hit by the sign, or either shot off as a result of its impact with the hard-packed ground. 

It looks like a piece of the steps inside. The steps that no longer twist up to the top, to the breathtaking view that Max can only remember now as seeming ominous. Too tranquil, for a town like Arcadia.

There's something etched into the rust. Max raises it, right in front of her ears, and reads.

 

_Thank you_

 

The chunk of step tumbles from her trembling fingers. 

The same hurried handwriting.

The same writing glimpsed on countless walls, even recently, staining the page of her own textbook. 

Max's eyebrow furrows tightly. She stands, staring down at the piece of step, for so long it finally blurs in her wet vision. 

And then.

To her right.

By the crushed, smashed-up rubble of the lighthouse lantern--

Something moves,  _struggles_ , beneath the layers of thick rubble.

Max stays completely still for a second, frozen to the same spot of ground. The rubble of the lantern clangs and shifts and refuses to part.

Max  _bolts_.

She drops to her knees, ignoring the sting of the lantern's broken glass on her hands as she digs, pushes, tears at the ruin. Her heart pole-vaults up into her esophagus, sticks. Chokes her. The sounds that fall, involuntarily, from her mouth as her hands thrash and yank the debris are hiccupy, gasping, drenched in a thousand different emotions.

The most palpable one, the one that Max can feel breaking her wide open, is disbelief. 

The rubble finally comes loose. Max falls backwards, mostly from shock, onto her heels.

And watches in paralyzing shock, as Nathan forces the last piece pinning him down away, and sits up blearily, eyes popping almost out of his head.

"What--"

It's all he gets out before Max lunges, throwing her arms around his neck. She presses her face hard against the side of his neck, breathes in, and it's smells and tastes like salt, drying rain, copper and someone who's  _alive, alive, ALIVE_ \--

"Max, holy shit," Nathan's hands are everywhere, running through her hair, across her wet face, down her back and sides. She can feel his lungs heaving beneath his chest. "Oh my God. Oh my God--"

"You're--"

"Am I--"

"I thought -- I thought you were--" She pulls back, but only slightly. "You're bleeding."

He is, from several different gashes and cuts. His right eye is bruised, swollen shut, likely the result of where he was hit with one of the lantern pieces that eventually pinned him down. His lip is split, blood bubbling where he's unaware he's biting it.

"So are you," he brushes his fingertips across her nose, and they come away scarlet. "Max. What the fuck happened? I-I saw the lighthouse coming down, and I thought for sure I was..."

"So did I," Max pants. "The ancestors, they -- they --"

Nathan's eyes burst wide. "Harry and Kristine--"

"Are completely fine. I was talking to everyone on the phone--"

"Oh,  _shit_ ," Nathan sighs hard, relief radiating, pulsing. "Jesus. Thank God. When I woke up, when I saw I-I was... alive, I thought they might've..."

"The ancestors listened to you," Max says, "I  _swore_  that they were going to take you."

"So, how the fuck am I alive?"

 "I don't know. I seriously don't." Max releases him, her heart and blood rushing at different rhythms. "They told me that the 'debt had been paid', and the lighthouse came down." She picks up a piece of rubble, tosses it aside. "They're clearly gone. M-Moved on, because they got what they wanted. But you're here."

"Don't sound too enthusiastic."

A laugh stutters from her lips, breathless and disbelieving. "I  _am_. Swear. I'm just freaking out right now."

She twists their fingers. Nathan leans forward, presses his sticky forehead gently against hers. Max feels like crying again, but for a much different reason this time.

"Had this crazy fucking dream," Nathan murmurs. "While I was out."

"Hmm?"

"I saw my brother." 

He seems embarrassed by the words, as though afraid Max is going to scoff or laugh in his face.

She doesn't. The words strike her chest like a hot poker, sear through. They swell in her mind and inflate. 

"I... saw him too," she says, stunned. "In a vision, right before the lighthouse fell. He said--"

" _Thank you?_ " Nathan finishes. 

They stare at each other for a moment, in the empty silence, among the swirling tendrils of smoke and curling flame. 

Max is the first to break it, pulling in a violent gasp. 

"What?" Nathan says.

"The ancestors told me something, about what happens to people who don't die peacefully in Arcadia. It happened to Rachel, it happened to Dean. Like the ancestors, the emotion they felt at death were so overwhelming, so  _strong_  that they -- got  _stuck_ , basically. They became trapped between Arcadia's spiritual realm and the physical one."

Nathan's mouth parts, a puff of breath escaping. 

"If they were able to fix what made them so angry or upset in the first place, the ancestors constructed an alternate reality and sent them there, to live again. When Rachel helped us find her body, helped us find the Dark Room, she decided to move on instead."

"And Dean?"

"He wanted to go to another reality. That's what he wanted, ever since he died, for the ancestors to let him live somewhere else again. But." Max's heart sinks, in that way it has grown so used to. "I think he sacrificed that chance. So you could survive."

Nathan inhales shakily. "B-But he was already dead."

"I don't think 'dead' means the same thing in Arcadia, as it does everywhere else," Max returns. "There have been layers of reality in this town, spiritual, physical. Dean left the physical world but he was still here. Think about all the notes he wrote me, how he led us straight to the Tobanga, led us to that video. That's not exactly dead. Rachel was the same. Dead, but..."

"Around. Able to intervene." Nathan's lower lip trembles.

"Plus, if he was alive in a bunch of other realities..." Max breathes. "Then, he would have sacrificed those, too."

Nathan's voice is small and hoarse. "So he's gone now? For real?"

Max presses her lips together. "If you're here, if you're alive, then, yes. He must be." 

"Fuck." Nathan curls in on himself. He sucks in a deep, broken breath. When the crying starts, quaking his entire frame, Max puts her arms around him tightly. 

"It's okay," she whispers. "He's... somewhere better now."

"Why would he do that? Why?" Nathan asks. "He could've  _lived_."

"Obviously," Max's own eyes are brimming again, these tears fresh and hot. "He wanted you to live more."

"Dean," Nathan sobs, voice like serrated glass. 

For a long while, for a stretch impossible to track, Nathan cries himself hoarse. And neither of them move.

"I won't waste it," Nathan says eventually, sitting back and wiping roughly at his red-rimmed eyes. "This chance he gave me. I fucking promise. I won't waste a second of it."

Max smiles. It wobbles, but it's there. "Don't you dare."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Max expects to find her car with a tree trunk plowed through it, skewered like a kebab. Instead, she finds it with a cracked windshield, like a spider's web, and a half dozen deep dents and grooves beaten into the sides. Maybe her dad won't kill her after all. Under the circumstances, she's hoping to get off the hook.

Kate had been right, the roads leading out of Arcadia Bay are a plethora of destruction. She has to drive cautiously, avoiding trees and sparking power cables. The damage gets lesser and lesser the further they get from town. She turns on the radio, listens to Portland stations and stations from other states babble in shock about the freak tornado that brewed in Portland but only hit Arcadia. The meteorologists they bring on air sound as stumped and frantic as the ones Max had once heard trying to explain snow flurries, eclipses and double moons. It's another wave of deja vu.

But it's over. It's finally over. 

They found a first aid kit in one of the bashed-up buildings on the walk back from the lighthouse, and Nathan has it open on his lap. He's bandaged his hands, and is currently dabbing a cotton bud with anti-septic.

"Shit," he hisses, jumping at the sting once he sweeps it across his forehead. "Hurts like a motherfucker."

"Better than being dead."

He swallows. "Yeah."

"What are you thinking?"

"Jesus, Max, my head's all over the place. I don't even  _know_  what to think. I used to think all of this insane shit only happened in movies."

"I think I'm de-sensitized," Max quips, pulling the car right to avoid a fallen branch. "Sort of."

"Then you're my hero. I'm going to be trying to make sense of this for the rest of my life." 

"Are you going to tell Kristine and Harry..."

"What? That Dean threw away his shot at living again so that I could?" He huffs, wincing as he presses the cotton bud back against his gash. "Pretty sure I'd get re-committed. How do you even start explaining something like that?"

"You don't have to tell them right away," Max replies, "but... I really think it would be a comfort. Dean was still looking out for you, after all this time." 

"Honestly, them finding out that he wasn't a fucking drug mule for our father is a better comfort. I don't think they need to know more than that." He pauses then, in a hesitant sort of way.

Max glances over. "What's up?"

He shrugs. "If I told anyone, I'd... want to tell my mom."

Max remembers the Dean shrine, the candles flickering continuously in the Prescott Estate. "She's still grieving, isn't she?"

"Max, my mom..." He sighs heavily. "She's got some issues of her own, you know? All her life. Never talked to anyone about it, never saw a doctor. And when we lost Dean, it was like she just... gave up. Fucking completely. And my dad just... abandoned her. She'd never take anything I said about any of this seriously, but, I still wanna tell her someday. That he was around." 

"I bet that would give her a lot of peace." 

Nathan tips his head back against the seat, shuts his eyes tight. 

"Everything I said up there," he says, "And... the - the kiss. I meant it."

"Me too."

He looks at her, and the confusion radiating from him bewilders her. "Seriously?"

"Yes." Her cheeks heat, pleasantly. "Completely cereal."

"I just..." He shrugs awkwardly. "I wouldn't blame you, if you were just feeling sorry for me."

Max frowns. The car thuds over a loose branch. "That is so not it. At all." She reaches over, rests her palm gently on his bandaged skin. "I  _know_  you remember what I said a few weeks ago. I care about you. A lot." 

"I remember." He smiles wryly. "Only replayed it in my head, oh... a hundred fucking times." His head thumps back against the seat. "Pull over for a second." 

"What?"

"Please. Just pull over. There's some shit I want to say, and you need to hear it before we get back to Portland."

Max hesitates, mostly out of fear of the unknown. But finally her foot eases off the gas, settling instead on the brakes, and she maneuvers the car off over to the side of the road. 

She slows to a stop, the silence broken only by the low muttering of the radio.

"No matter what happens," Nathan says. He seems to be purposely not looking at her. "Wherever I end up, in... whatever reality this turns out to be. I want you to know that you changed my life. That you saved my life."

"I didn't do anything." Max turns off the ignition, shaking her head slowly. "You saved yourself."

"But I wouldn't have wanted to, if I hadn't met you." He stares hard at the dash. "Who I was, before? In that other timeline? How I treated you, and everybody else... I'm never going to be able to apologize enough for that. I was... fuck, in a lot of pain, but that doesn't excuse the fact I was scum of the earth. You could've left me to rot in that ward and part of me still wishes you would've. But you still came, every week, and I started to feel like I could be a... person again. Someday. Honestly, those Wednesdays were the only thing I had to look forward to. I started...  _living_  for them. Because if someone as good as you doesn't think I'm plain dog shit,  then maybe there is some kind of hope for me, after all." 

Max looks down. "When I lost Chloe," she says, "I kept thinking I made the wrong choice. I remember thinking how this was supposed to be the timeline where everything was fixed, and happy, and beautiful. But everything seemed worse, without her. How could  _any_  world be perfect without her?" She raises her head slowly. "But I've realized... it's not about being perfect. It's about... just doing the best you can. Dealing with the shit that destiny throws at you, because you can't stop destiny. Just learn how to react to it. And seeing how far you've come, Nathan... I realized that, maybe, I can still help people after all. Maybe all of my destinies aren't doomed to be bleak."

He takes her hand, almost hesitantly, like she might pull away. ""The things you've done for me, I won't ever forget them. No matter what."

 _No matter what._ Max looks up at him from beneath her bangs, her lips pressing together. "This is why you wanted me to pull over, right?" She tries to sound resigned, accepting. The words are instead coated in reluctant misery. "We won't have... time, when we get back."

"...Yeah."

"This has to be goodbye." 

Nathan nods. "We can't exactly pretend I'm going to be walking out of the courthouse with you." 

Max sighs out, shakily, and reaches for him. He meets her halfway, arms enveloping her. He's nearly dry, but his clothes still smell like the rain, his dress shirt stained with green from the grass. She presses her face against his neck, shuts her eyes. And Max selfishly wishes, as she's done frequently since last year, that she still had her powers just for this moment. So she could keep rewinding, and stay here in this moment, for as long as she needs it.

"I won't forget you," Nathan says quietly, his lips vibrating against her hair. His voice is small and choked, but certain. "I swear." 

"Me either." She sniffs. She's so tired of crying, but the tears continue to brim. 

Nathan tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear when they pull away, his eyes searching and his smile as delicate as fragile glass about to break. Max leans forward before her brain has the chance to talk her out of it. She presses her lips against that smile, breaks it herself. Nathan makes a surprised sound. It takes Max back to a few months ago, when he'd done the same thing on a wooden bench, in a blooming garden. How much more than a few months ago that feels, now. 

Max thinks she's shaking, but then again maybe both of them are. She tangles her fingers in his hair, mouth opening willingly under his as his hands slide warmly from her neck to the sides of her face. 

"Is it ironic," Max asks when they break away, after what feels like hours but is really only a minute or two, "that I wish we had more time?"

Nathan laughs lightly, presses his mouth against her nose. "I know." 

"We've been through too much," Max leans her forehead against his, gently, so as not to antagonize his cuts and bruises. "Not just you and me, but all of us. I can't -- this isn't for good. You're going to see me again, Nathan Prescott."

"That could be... years, Max."

"Fine. Years it is, then."

She expects him to argue, or even chuckle, the laugh of someone who doesn't take her seriously.

Instead, Nathan takes a soft breath in, and says, "Thank you." 

He crushes their mouths once more, and the sensation overflows, packed with promises that Max tucks away forever in her heart. 

"Until then," Max says, a little breathlessly when they finally break apart, "you can, I don't know, write to me or something."

He winces. "You know I'm bad at words."

"Then send me a postcard."

He chuckles. "Alright. I can do that." He threads his fingers through hers and nods, as if sure of something. "I hope you have the greatest life, Max." 

Max turns her head and stares out the windshield, at the calm night sky, the stars, the stretch of road that leads to the future, a future that's coming whether she likes it or not.

"We should go," Nathan says, with both the tone and expression of someone who would like to stay here forever.

They kiss again, and though it gets harder and harder to pull away, Max eventually makes herself. She turns the key and the car rumbles back to life. As she pulls back onto the road, Nathan reaches over and takes her hand. He refuses to let go for the rest of the journey. 

Max drives slowly, on purpose. Nathan doesn't notice or, if he does, he seems relieved. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The storm manifested in Portland as just a warning, it seems. The city is largely unaffected. The only imprint left behind by the passing tornado appears to just be the rain-soaked sidewalks, the languidly dripping roofs, and empty, silent streets. 

The sun has risen, the sky awash with soft lilac and hazy blue, the deep rain puddles glimmering with color. Max brings the car to a halt by the courthouse steps, tires squelching through the wet. There are lights in the windows of the building. The sense of movement within is palpable. Max wonders whether Nathan will be grabbed violently and taken away, the second he steps through the doors. 

Outside, it is morning chilly, and the air is the freshest it will be that day, drenched with dew and pale light. Nathan waits for her at the steps, doing his tie back up. The bandages have done their job of stemming any blood flow, but the bruises on his cheeks are in full-bloom, as if stirred to wakening by the sunlight. But he's  _alive_. It could have all turned out so differently. Max could have easily returned to Portland alone. 

Climbing the steps feel more exhausting than usual, and Nathan must sense it too because halfway up, he takes her hand and squeezes. In her mind, Max counts the remaining steps, the exact number it will take to lead them through the doors and have this all be over, forever. 

Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one--

Inside, the courthouse air is dry and still stinks of ground-up coffee beans. The warmth envelops her shivering skin immediately in a soft, greeting embrace. 

The corridor stretching wide and endless ahead is crowded. Men sit on the ground with their suit jackets off and sleeves rolled up, ties undone loose around their necks. Max recognizes the court's typist, the severe bun she had once worn now messy and unkempt, as she balances a tray of Styrofoam coffee cups. Court guards are huddled together, arms folded, muttering to each other in low tones. 

All of these people were in the trial, others simply work in the building. They must've taken cover here when the storm warning came, and waited out what they thought was going to be a devastating shock of wind and rain and fire. Max remembers the hot rush of panic when she'd left hours ago, but now, everyone seems kind of bored. Restless. 

She spots her friends, occupying the space right outside Nathan's courtroom. Justin is doing kickflips on his beat-up board, while Zachary and Brooke are playing some makeshift kind of soccer game, using empty coffee cups for goal posts and a small, crinkled up piece of paper as the ball. 

Max opens her mouth, her steps advancing quickly towards them. 

But before she can even get close, a flash from a room to the left intercepts her. 

" _Max!_ " 

Max honestly has to do a double-take, because Carmin is the most disheveled she's ever seen her. Max didn't even know Carmin Silva was capable of looking so untidy. Her blouse blooms with wrinkles, her hair is tangled and frizzy, and her eyes are wild and sleep-deprived. Her grip falls iron-tight on Max's wrist, bringing her to a firm halt, and she can feel the pure, undiluted emotion radiating off the older woman. It's all reflected in her usually guarded expression, too. It's all there. Panic, astonishment, rage, bewilderment. 

"Where," Carmin spits, her voice shy of hysterical, "in the name of all that is  _fucking_  sacred, have you  _been?_ "

Max opens her mouth, but is quickly silenced by the accusing stab of Carmin's finger.

"And you!" she hisses, grabbing Nathan hard by the cuff off his shirt. "I turn around and you're  _gone!_ Do you understand that kind of stupidity? Does it come easily to you? Because I've been losing what's left of my mind for hours--"

"It's not Max's fault," Nathan replies, brushing her grip off. "Some shit happened and we had to fix it. We did. I'm here now."

"I asked your friends what happened to you, and do you know what they told me?" Carmin laughs shrilly. "Arcadia Bay, tornadoes,  _spiritual ancestors?_ Are you serious? What Twilight Zone door did we go through, because last I checked, this was fucking Portland. You should've seen the  _looks_ I got from the officers when I had to garble my way through what possessed my client to take off in the middle of his  _own trial._ " 

"Are they pissed?" Nathan asks, wincing. 

"The storm threw everyone for a loop. It was bedlam. I managed to convince them that you probably ran off thinking the tornado was about to tear through the building, that it was a typical reaction to a fucking surprise disaster. The judge and jury did the same thing, after all." She huffs. "They couldn't send out search teams in the storm, so all I could do was promise you'd drag your ass back here." She folds her arms. "I'd hoped your father would be with you."

"He's not here?" The dread that washes over Max makes her lightheaded. 

"Used the storm as a distraction to high-tail it out of here, it seems. He could be anywhere." Carmin runs her hands through her raggedy hair, sighing. "We had him. He was practically in the damn cuffs. I'm starting to think that storm was deliberately fucking conjured to piss me off."

"Tell me about it," Nathan mutters.

Carmin eyes him. "Look, whatever happened tonight, you owe me a detailed explanation. But the most important thing to me right now is the fact you're here, in one piece." She sighs. "The jury start deliberations at nine sharp. I'm expecting a sentence by lunch." 

Nathan nods. "Okay."

"What do you think will happen?" Max asks her.

"This is the first case I've ever done where the conclusion was anything but clear. It could go any direction." She nods at Nathan, stern. "You need to be ready."

"I am."

"And you," she turns on Max, "you need to be ready too. Everything is about to change." 

Max looks at Nathan. "I'm ready." 

Carmin takes out her phone. "I have to call Dymphna's, let them know you're coming."

"I am?" Nathan asks dubiously.

"If you want to stand in front of the judge looking like you were dragged through the nine circles of Hell, be my guest." She rolls her eyes. "Go back to the hospital, get cleaned up, take your morning medication. Plus, you have to pack. Nell and the team have already started."

She click-clacks to the end of the hall in her heels, phone at her ear, shoulders upright and confident with renewed purpose. 

But Max barely has a second to turn to Nathan, because more people are coming. 

Footsteps beat towards them like bullets. All three of them turn, precisely as Warren reaches them, Kate and Victoria on his heels. They look sleep-deprived and rumpled, indicative of a few hours of broken sleep on a cold floor. 

"No way," Warren says,  _staring_  at Nathan like he is a phantom about to disappear. "You're alive?"

"It was Dean," Max says in a rush. "He fixed everything." 

Warren looks at her for a beat, and then hugs her hard. "I don't know what that means," he says against her shoulder, "but I'm fucking relieved. Are you okay?" 

"Getting there." 

Victoria surges forward, pointing an accusatory fingernail inches from Nathan's nose. "Seriously? You just show up? I thought you were  _dead_."

"I'm sorry," Nathan says hoarsely. 

"Sorry? You're  _sorry?_  Do you even know what I was going through for the past few hours, thinking you were -- that you were--" She groans, frustrated. "After everything we've been through. I thought -- I thought I knew you. I thought you trusted me. I thought  _you_  knew that you could  _always_  talk to me. I guess I thought a lot of dumb shit, huh?"

Max looks between them silently. This isn't just about Nathan being alive, she knows. 

Nathan swallows.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "About everything. I'm sorry." 

The silence that falls hangs. No one makes an attempt to fill it.

Victoria folds her arms and looks at him hard, her eyes narrowed to furious slits. But Max knows her well enough by now, to recognize the relief, writ clear in the tremble of her hands, in the way she presses her lips together hard. 

Since pulling Nathan out from underneath the rubble, Max has been filled with the most profound sense that things are changing. She looks between Victoria and Nathan and knows the bad blood is not going to last forever. It feels like a beginning, or a rewritten story. And whatever the world decides to throw at her now, she'll take it head on. 

"You better deal with your own shit," Victoria snaps finally. "Wherever you get sent, you gotta suck it up and focus on getting better."

"I know. I will." 

" _Promise_  me."

"I promise."

"Victoria's going to Paris," Max tells him softly. 

Nathan's mouth drops open. "That visual arts program you talked about last year? You got in?"

Victoria shrugs.

"That's dope," Nathan says. His voice is small and wondrous. His hand twitches at his side. "That's... wow, Vic. Congratulations. You'll be -- You'll be awesome. More than awesome."

Kate brushes past Max, her hands clasped in front of her. Her expression is guarded. 

"Nathan," she says, "can I talk to you for a minute?"

He starts, wide-eyed. 

"Uh." He shifts in place, foot to foot like a skittish animal. "Are you su--"

Max grabs Warren's arm, and tosses Nathan a nod over her shoulder. "We'll be over here. Take your time."

Max tugs Warren further down the corridor. She stops and slides down against the wall, bones sagging with the weight of the night. Warren joins her, cross-legged.

"Fill me in," Warren says. "What the hell happened in Arcadia?"

"The end of the world, of course." 

"But you made it."

"I guess we did. Somehow."

He chews on his lower lip. "...Dean?"

"He saved us. Well, saved Nathan." Max lifts her gaze and looks down the hall, to where Kate and Nathan have sat down on a bench and are immersed in conversation. Well, Kate is the only one speaking, her hands moving, her gaze down, her shoulders up. But Nathan looks rapt, and also terrified, his face waxy and pale. But he listens.

"How?"

"There were still other realities. I think, there will  _always_  be other realities. He could've gone to one, he could have lived. It was what he was working towards all this time. And he gave it up, just like that. To break a family curse." She expels an awed breath. "I guess he didn't just save Nathan. He saved his entire family, including the ones that haven't even born yet. He saved Arcadia from destroying itself."

"A curse?" Warren frowns. "No way." 

"A hundred years old. And it finally ended tonight."

"And Arcadia is... gonna be okay?"

Max smiles. A swell of emotion rises in her chest, inflating and inflating like a balloon. "I think it's going to be great. From now on, it's going to be just a little nowhere town." She laughs. "I never thought I'd be so pumped to be bored."

Warren grins brightly. "I told you the universe owed you a few favors. You probably have a whole  _life_ of boring to look forward to, Max."

Max sighs happily. "I've seen a lot of futures, and that's honestly the greatest one yet."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

As ever, Carmin ends up being right. The trial is resumed at nine am sharp, and only ten minutes later, the jury is sent out.

Carmin said a verdict by lunch. But Max has a tight knot in her chest that suggests anywhere from minutes, hours, days. 

She reunites with her parents back at their hotel, where they proceed to press her lungs pancake-flat and simultaneously fire a barrage of non-stop questions in her ears. Max stays vague, dancing around the words, and promises to tell them everything when they are either very old, or else she is. Her dad seems amused at that, her mother less so, her brown knit in tight concern. She's probably going to ask Max about this night for the rest of her life, and that's okay. She'll get the answers. Someday. But Max wants to be far away from here when that happens, living a dull life and appreciating every molecule of her future mundane existence. 

When the realization settles that Max is back and alive, they seem less occupied with the events that drove her to leave in the first place. Well, slightly less occupied. But it's something. Her dad isn't even that mad about the car. He spent the past couple hours thinking Max was MIA in a tornado-wrecked town, so a couple dings to the windshield come out as the better deal. 

In their hotel room, she takes what is definitely the best shower of her entire life. She watches all of the dirt and detritus circle the drain, before disappearing forever. When her skin is red and raw-clean, it feels like a new beginning. She feels a lot more human after that and a big breakfast of sticky pastries, sweet orange juice and buttery toast. But the entire time she's in the hotel, her skin itches with the need to get back to the courthouse, to be with her friends and do some damage reports. She decides to drive herself after another hour, and pulls on a green dress of her mom's. It's a little long, a little big, but she makes it work somehow. She makes a silent vow to never wear black dresses again. 

By noon, Max finds herself back in the courthouse waiting area, fingers drumming anxiously on a cup of tea, surrounded by her friends. 

The conversation among the others is loud and buzzing enough, that Max almost misses the soft words Kate murmurs. 

"I told him I forgave him." Kate is right next to her, nursing a coffee for once, and she traces her fingertip around the cup. 

"Nathan?" Max asks, without having to.

Kate nods. 

"Do you actually forgive him?"

Kate pauses. "Yes," she states. "There are still moments where I don't, where I see him differently. But those moments don't come as much as they used to." She raises the cup and rests her chin on the edge, steam swirling softly in front of her face. "I just don't want to  _hate_  anymore. It's so exhausting, Max. And it's not worth it. After everything we've been through, I believe the very worst thing we could do would be to stay stuck in the past. It doesn't mean I forgive what he did, or still hate that he did it. But I forgive who he is now. Who he was is not my responsibility. I have to try to move on with what we have now,  _today_."

"The ancestors," Max tells her, "they were consumed by their hate. It changed them, made them lose their rationality." 

Kate nods again. "If we take anything away from this past year, it's to not get frozen in that hate ourselves. The world is scary and negative enough. We have to move on from here with kindness, and compassion."

Max smiles at her warmly. "You've definitely got buckets of that to share."

"I don't, really. It's so hard to be kind. Sometimes, I'm... terrified that it won't ever be enough. That I'll lose that optimism somewhere along the way."

"I hear you. Really."

"So how will you move on?" Kate asks her. "What are you going to do, now that you've saved Arcadia from itself again?"

"Wowser. Take a nap, I guess."

Kate laughs. "I'm serious! You must be feeling invincible. Where do you want to go from here?"

Max is certain that, in her head, Kate is picturing exotic or extravagant adventures. A flashy art gallery flooded with Max Caulfield originals, or a plane soaked in sunlight, travelling to some far-off location above snow-capped mountains and rolling canyons. A year ago, when Max's heart and mind were different, she would have pictured the same. Desired it fervently, even.

Months ago, Max longed for a normal life, one that would not be haunted by past mistakes, decisions, failures. It had seemed as achievable as winning the jackpot lottery.

Now, Max is struck by the realization that the mundane, the ordinary, is no longer so impossible.

And she can't imagine wanting anything else.

Max turns to Kate, mirroring her smile. "I think," she says, "I... want to go to college. And study something interesting, challenging. I want to come home at night to a tiny crapbox apartment and watch shitty TV, and eat fast food, and be with people that I love."

Kate's eyes illuminate. "That sounds  _amazing_ , Max. You could even take naps in between."

Max laughs, and despite the heavy cloud that is Nathan's impending verdict, despite Sean Prescott's vanishing, she laughs hard. Mouth open, eyes bright, waiting for the blissfully boring world to welcome her home. 

Max is still sitting in the coffee area when Carmin finds her. The lawyer is much more put together, sporting a fresh royal blue pantsuit, a tight ponytail, and a steely look to her eyes that states  _I am very important._ Max, who has been prone to spontaneous bursts of laughter and smiling ever since her conversation with Kate, greets her with a grin. 

And, to her everlasting shock, Carmin smiles back. Wide, teeth bared, and before she even opens her mouth, Max gets the feeling the older woman has some important news.

"We got him," Carmin says.

For a moment, Max doesn't know what she's talking about. But then Kate gasps, silence falls over the group, and Carmin's grin changes into something smug, elegant and wise. 

Max doesn't feel like laughing anymore. She feels like screaming, jumping to her feet, waving her arms around. 

"No  _way_ ," she whispers, shock coating every syllable. "Mr. Prescott?"

Carmin slaps her fist into her open palm, as you might crush a pesky fly. "He's already behind bars, beginning his wait for what's gotta be the biggest trial in state history."

"H-How?" Max splutters. "Where?"

"I had a hunch," Carmin says wryly. "And, as ever, it turned out to be right. Cops found him hiding, right in the Arcadia Bay bunker. He's basically contradicted his entire witness testimony, and made himself look like a lying, manipulative rat in the process."

"The bunker," Max breathes.

"The judge finds it real interesting how, the guy who claimed to have no knowledge of the Dark Room, had the fucking back-up codes to get into it."

This time, Max  _does_  laugh. Startled and high. "Oh my God," she gasps. "We did it!"

Applause and cheering rises like balloons from the group. Max is enveloped in hug after hug, and she keeps laughing through it all, until her eyes are wet, until her chest aches, until she feels breathless and weightless and  _happy_.

"There's been another development," Carmin goes on, when the noise dies down. "I contacted Mark Jefferson in the past hour. When he heard about Sean's arrest, about the irrefutable evidence you guys found courtesy of Dean, the asshole spilled his guts. Now he can't  _stop_ confessing. There's nowhere left to hide, no big protector called Sean Prescott to hide behind. And no mentally-debilitated Nathan to wholly blame."

Suddenly, Max is crying. The emotional switch is so sudden she genuinely fears whiplash. When she glances at Kate, at Victoria, she realizes that their eyes are also streaming, their faces also split open in a dizzy mixture of disbelief, amazement and joy. Kate grabs her for a hug,  _Victoria_  does the same, and Max clings on to both of them and tries to get her breathing back in control. Her heart slams, and for the first time in a long time, it's a blissful heartbeat, an excited dance against her breastbone.

Max can't help it, she grabs Carmin and pulls her in for a tight hug. The lawyer stiffens, clearly unused to affection of this type, and for a moment it's like hugging a concrete pillar. But when she relaxes, even laughs against Max's hair, the happiness radiates, and fills Max up. 

"I've informed Nathan," Carmin says, after they've pulled away. "He's ecstatic."

"Is he here?" Max asks, overcome with an overwhelming desire to see him. 

"Yes, he just arrived." She pulls Max aside, lowers her voice. "Listen, I want to thank you. I never would have got this far without your help."

"And we wouldn't have got here without you," Max insists. 

"When the Prescott-Jefferon trial begins, I've agreed to represent every single one of the Dark Room victims," Carmin says, "not just the girls in the folders, but their families, loved ones, anyone affected by this Dark Room."

Max didn't think she could take any more good news, but the words gush more euphoria into every cell. "I can see you really enjoying that," she jokes. 

"Oh, I've been waiting years to hammer Sean into dust. I won't waste a second doing that." Carmin folds her arms, smiling. "Also, I've offered to represent David and Joyce if they want to take a case against Principal Wells and Blackwell Academy. Pro bono, of course."

Max's eyes widen. "They can do that?"

"They weren't aware a case existed there until I told them. Wells isn't a villian, but the fact remains Blackwell Academy took bribes from a wealthy family, forged official reports on Nathan's behavior and essentially allowed a severely ill student to deteriorate under their watch, all in the interest of generating funding. Moreover, it's also a school that failed to recognize him as a threat, and saw an innocent student killed because of it." 

"Do you think they'll win that case?"

Carmin rolls her eyes. "Please. Who are you talking to?"

When Max hugs her again, Carmin doesn't stiffen, but instead hugs her back, albeit a little awkwardly. 

"I suppose you'll be leaving Arcadia after you graduate," Carmin says. 

"Yes, I will be," Max says. She doesn't realize she didn't hesitate at all until the words or out. As well as that, the words, nor what they mean, don't hurt as much as the Max of a months ago had pictured. Actually, they don't hurt at all. 

"Then remember this," Carmin squeezes her shoulder, smiling warmly. "If you ever need a favor, legal or otherwise, you have a friend at Silva and Christopher."

There is a sudden thrum of footsteps in the hall, and Max and Carmin both turn.

"The deliberations," Carmin says, with slightly wide eyes. "Shit, that was fast."

"It's time?" Max asks. 

"It's time."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The judge makes a joke about the tornado interrupting the trial, and the court rumbles with laughter. It turns out that since no one died, and the thing passed right over Portland, it turned out to be a comical and rather confusing weather event for everybody here. For Max, who certainly experienced the full, venomous bite of the storm in Arcadia, it's a little surreal to know everyone else experienced something incredibly different. 

"That's the dilemma of the superhero," Warren sighs next to her, when she mentions this. "You see fucked-up shit and save the world, but nobody can ever know."

"Except you," Max quips. 

"Well, every superhero needs a Robin."

Nathan had slipped into the court when it was still filling up. He looks much better, and Max had felt an an undefinable tug in the pit of her stomach. He looks showered and fed, dressed in a clean suit and blue tie. The bruises on his face are still stains of black and purple, but they seem smaller and less angry. The gash on his forehead is covered by a pristine white bandage, and similar bandages are wrapped around his hands. When he had sat, he turned and looked around for her. When their eyes met, Max's smile had been equal parts brave and hopeful. 

The news of his father's arrest has changed something in him, it's plain for the eye to see. He sits up straight in the seat, smiling, and an air of calm radiates from him like sun rays. 

A few minutes after Nathan arrived, Kristine had wandered in, an arm slung loosely around Harry's shoulders. She had sat right up the front, taking her parents seats. The sight twitched at Max's lips, and her smile had only grown, when Nathan had turned back around and sent them a genuine smile that is heavy with warmth. 

David and Joyce hugged several people when they arrived, Max's parents included. When they sit, Carmin goes over and after a small exchange, the three all shake hands. 

Now, the judge sits, and the court is silent, and waiting. 

The jury are glancing at one another, as the judge speaks. 

Time drags, and then rushes. It is a constant stop-start, like a car. Max's fingers curl in the wooden seat, nails biting into the wood. 

Max's heart is pounding.

Her memory presents her with a dozen images, like turning the pages of a picture book. She remembers a bathroom, a junk yard, a lighthouse, a best friend with bright blue hair and an even brighter, dazzling smile.

Max truly feels like she has lived decades in these past few months. She knows she's aged, changed. She also knows that she won't ever be the original Max Caulfield whose biggest worry had been how to impress the charismatic photography teacher of her dreams. Her mind is different now, her perspective forever altered. But that's okay. It is. She can make sure that what happened this year can never happen again. She can live in thrilling, boring peace. 

And she's going to live for two people. For herself, and for Chloe. 

Warren suddenly grabs her wrist, his grip anxious. 

Max realizes the jury foreman has stood. 

The verdict is here. 

A pin could drop in the court, and it would be deafening.

The foreman nods at the judge. 

Their mouth opens, the words tumble out heavily.

"We find Nathan Prescott--"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... wish I had a medal to give you for getting through 20k of my terrible writing
> 
> Enjoy the epilogue! :D


	26. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want some listening to go along with this epilogue, [ this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vrXpFh2IHZY) is what I listened to! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy <3

 

  
  
SIX WEEKS LATER

 

  
The sky over Arcadia Bay is crystalline, vibrant, and endlessly blue. Summer has come, in all its colorful glory, and brought with it baking heat, growth, and new possibilities. 

On a school campus, flanked by piles of rubble and ruin, Max Caulfield is saying goodbye. The first goodbye of many today.

"So, you're leaving." 

Max smiles, and it feels warm "I am. In a few hours, actually." 

"How do you feel?"

"Terrified. But I'm ready."

Ms. Owens' eyes glitter. " _Congratulations_ , Max. I'm beyond thrilled for you."  

It's morning, hot and muggy, the bars of sunlight streaming from the sky bathing Max in exquisite heat. But the breeze is there, whispering through the trees and foliage, pressing crisp, refreshing kisses to her skin. Max leans back further against the front Blackwell steps, flushing beneath Ms. Owens' praise, and the heavy pride in her gaze. But her smile does not waver, but only grows. The counselor sits next to her, sporting sunglasses and a fresh tan. 

Max can hear, and see, hammering, construction, the mechanical whir of clean-up equipment. The air has been full of these sounds for the past six weeks, as Arcadia Bay rebuilds. The storm destroyed so much, took away so much, but the damage turned out to be solely physical. There were no deaths, no tragedies. Now everyone has come together, rising at dawn each morning and only returning home at nightfall, in order to put the town back together. The glue holding the pieces this time feels stronger, Max knows. No storm will ever come again, to take it all away.

Blackwell Academy was still standing, but did lose a sizeable chunk of its roof, a dozen or more classrooms, and other vicious landscape. But all of the rubble has been cleared to the sides, and the paths are still clear. They are crowded this morning, overflowing with students, parents, dragging luggage and trunks and cardboard boxes. Move-out day, goodbye day. The sense of summer, of freedom and of celebration, permeates heavy over the air. 

"The University of Washington," Ms. Owens breathes, "You're going to love it, Max. What will you be studying?" 

"Photomedia," Max says, gesturing to the camera sitting in her lap. She's had to buy rolls of film over the past few weeks, more than she probably purchased this whole year. Her taste for photography, after the storm, became ravenous again. She found herself consumed by an overwhelming desire to document  _everything_. "It's my passion. It always will be. And I'm not going to let anything, or anyone, take it away from me again." 

"I'm thrilled to hear it. And your parents must be overjoyed, to have you back close to them."

"They are, but I actually looked into campus accommodation. An apartment, with my friend Kate Marsh." She shrugs. "I've... had enough of dorms." 

"Dormitories can be isolating." Ms. Owens tilts her head. "Although I must admit, I don't think you'll have a problem with loneliness next semester, Max. You seem to have come on amazingly, since we last spoke."

"About that," Max winces. "Ms. Owens, I am so sorry. I didn't mean to storm out like that, or offend you. I was... going through a lot. It, uh, felt like the end of the world."

"There is no need to apologize. All I care about is that you're feeling happy and healthy again. I have to say, though, part of me is a little apprehensive about these big changes coming your way. You were so concerned for your future, for leaving Arcadia Bay."

"It's not so scary anymore," Max answers, "leaving, I mean. I've faced bigger things. Starting over again, in a brand new place, it's going to be hard but... it won't be forever. The first few weeks will be the weirdest, and then... I'll settle in. I know I will." 

"I couldn't agree more," Ms. Owens replies. "But what about Chloe?"

Max looks down. "Do I still feel like I'm... betraying her? By leaving?"

Ms. Owens nods slowly. "It's understandable, if you feel that way. But Max, I told you--"

"I know, and you were right." Max glances at her, and holds her gaze. "I'm sorry I didn't see it then, but you were. Chloe isn't Arcadia Bay. I know now, I'm not leaving her behind." She smiles, a little sadly. "Chloe's...  _everything_. Everywhere. I know now, wherever I go, she'll be right there with me." She laughs. "And she's going to dig Washington."

"At the risk of sounding cliche, the most important thing to remember is that she will always be with you. Always." Ms. Owens says. She laughs then, surprised-sounding. "But she's definitely evoked through your  _hair!_  I have to say, Max, it really suits you."

Max smiles. She reaches a finger up. It curls around a single, dyed blue lock, on the left side of her hair. "A little homage," she answers. "Chloe would've wanted me to dye my whole  _head_ , but..."

Ms. Owens laughs. "Maybe you will, someday. For now, it looks lovely." 

Max sniffs the air, tasting soapy earth, seawater, and sunscreen. She wishes a camera existed that could capture smells, tastes. Freeze them forever in time, preserve them to always return to. Because the Arcadia that is being rebuilt, how it looks, tastes, smells, it's starting to feel like the nostalgically-encased Arcadia of her childhood. When one block would feel like a whole world, when everything was always new and bright and colorful, when the most exciting thing to ever happen was  _this_ , the coming of a heat wave.

It's not just Chloe that will be coming with her, Max realizes. It is not just Chloe, forever held in her heart. It's this place, all of it.

"I'll come back and visit," she tells Ms. Owens. "I might be leaving, but, this is the only place that's ever felt like home."

"When you do come back, you know where my office is." Ms. Owens nudges her gently. "I mean it, Max. My door is always open for you, if you ever need an ear."

"Thank you," Max says, smiling. "I've been thinking of going to therapy, in Washington. Between you and that, I should have a lot of ears to rant to."

"I'd urge you to do that. Adjusting to a new place, especially after all you've been through, you need to surround yourself with a solid support system."

"I will. But I think I've a pretty rad support system already." Max smiles at her warmly. "Including you. Thank you so much for your help this year. I'll keep working on myself, and get back to writing in my journal again. And when I come back and visit, I hope I'll be stronger."

Ms. Owens looks moved. "I hope you have an amazing life, Max." 

"Thank you, Ms. Owens. I hope so too." 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

A few feet away, Samuel is run off his feet with repairs. For the past few weeks, he has been constantly followed by a small team of hired helpers, boarding doors and windows, re-painting and cleaning, pushing away great sheets of rubble and ruin. He is perpetually covered in a light sheen of sweat, but he seems to be loving every second of toiling beneath the blistering heat. He seems rejuvenated.

Max finds him now at the Jeremiah Blackwell statue, peering up at it, the sun reflecting off his glasses. The statue's head was decapitated by the storm, and the sight of it without it is one part comical, one part eerie. 

"Hi Samuel," she stops at his side. "Did you find the head yet?"

"Not yet." He turns his head slightly and smiles at her, wry. "Samuel was just thinking that a statue of you should be put here instead." 

Max colors. "Definitely not. Marble is so not a good look."

Samuel chuckles. "in that case, it looks like my job to tell the new students about Max Caulfield. Tell them her story, how she saved Arcadia Bay." 

Max shoots him a look. "I doubt they'll believe a word." 

"Probably not." Samuel says merrily. "But what a story."

They stand there in contemplative silence for a moment, listening to the excited chatter of the passing crowds. 

Max lifts up her camera, and snaps a photo of the headless statue, glinting in the sunlight. 

Max turns to the janitor. "I have to go and see someone," she tells him, "And then, I have to finish up packing. So I guess this is goodbye, Samuel. Thank you so much for all our little conversations, this year. They were always so helpful, and, you're... amazingly cool." 

Samuel takes her hand to shake, and holds it after, squeezes. "Farewell, young Max. I hope we meet again someday."

"Me too. Really. Until then," she pats him lightly on the shoulder, "take care of the those cute squirrels, okay?"

"Oh, I will. They came whispering this morning, they want to thank you for saving their home." 

A warmth fills Max's chest. It moves her mouth once more into a smile. "Do you think Arcadia Bay will be alright now?"

Samuel nods, adamant. "Better than alright, Max. Look around. I can already feel it, a new kind of energy." 

The flinch twitches her frame, before she can stop it. "I... don't think Arcadia needs anymore energy."

"No." Samuel shakes his head. "This is the best kind of energy. Man-made. The energy of possibility. The energy that comes from ordinary folks falling back in love with their home. With that kind of light, Arcadia will be just fine."

His words make her pause, and suddenly she feels it, too, that energy. It is the sensation of sinking into a warm bath, or viewing something ordinary, but the longer you look, the more surprising beauty you see. 

It feels like chipping away at plunging darkness, exposing light buried for decades. It feels like freeing something into the air, where it spreads wings and takes flight like a bountiful bird. 

It feels like coming home. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Max does not go back to the dormitories right away. After speaking with Samuel, she weaves through the bustling crowd, and makes her way down to the bus stop. 

The journey is slower than usual, thanks to the traffic-coned roads, or the horizontal trees lying across some, blocking the way so that detours must be made. She is dropped off at the side of one such battered road, the bus unable to continue on. But it's fine, she can already see the house, rising up on top of the hill. All of the windows are open, curtains drifting gently from side to side in the breeze. 

When she reaches the enormous gates, Max sees that the smooth driveway is taken up by two bulky moving trucks. Men in overalls are carrying boxes to and from the house, the front door wide open. 

Max knocks on the door as she steps in. The foyer is bright, littered with more taped-up boxes. Music is playing from another room, a pop station, and the song hums through the walls and doors, as if the house itself is singing. 

Max finds herself taken aback. There is something profoundly different about this house. It is as if a physical weight has lifted off it. 

"Max! What are you doing here?" 

The voice is excited, joyful. Kristine has emerged from the kitchen, dressed in blue jeans and a soft wool sweater, her hair pinned up in a loose bun. She holds her arms out and Max hugs her, tight. She smells of dust and cleaning products. 

"Came to say goodbye," Max says, smiling ruefully. 

"Oh shit, right! You're off to Washington!" Kristine hugs her again, even harder. "I could've totally met up with you in Blackwell, though. You didn't have to come all the way here."

"It's cool, really. Plus you definitely seem busy." Max looks around, a little awed, careful to not trip over the piles of boxes. "What are you up to?"

"Packing up a bunch of shit!" Kristine exclaims. "My mother has relocated to the Boston house, for good it seems. So I have to send a lot of her crap to her." 

Max's eyebrows arch. "She left Arcadia? But what about--"

As if on cue, a young boy wanders out of the kitchen, dressed in shorts with a sunburnt nose. His eyes widen, then brighten, at the sight of Max. 

"Hi," he chirps.

"Hey, little da Vinci," Max says, hearing the astonishment in her own voice. She glances at Kristine. "He didn't go with her?"

"After everything that trial exposed, there was no way they were letting her do that. There was no way  _I_  was letting her do that."

"You mean--"

"I've applied for legal guardianship. Carmin says it shouldn't take too long, to become official."

"So you're staying?" Max asks, stunned. "Here in Arcadia? You and Harry?"

"No more running away. Remember?" Kristine smiles. "I've  _so_  much to do though, oh my God. On top of clearing out my parents stuff, I've basically renovating the entire house. It's too... cold. Full of bad juju." 

"What about your father's business?" Max asks, barely able to keep up with all of this news. "If your mom is AWOL, who's going to--"

"Me, of course."

Max stares at her.

A laugh bubbles out of Kristine's mouth. "Wow, are you really that shocked?"

"Like, a month ago, you were dying to get out of this town. What changed?" 

Kristine's smile fades. It's replaced instantly by a grey mixture of shame, and apology. 

"The trial," she murmurs. "I realized that I could never take away the pain that my father caused, or all of the hurt. But what I  _could_  do, was use the resources he left behind to do everything I possibly could to heal that pain. I've spent my entire life hating what our family meant, what our legacy was. Now I have the opportunity to change that legacy forever." 

"What will you do?" Max asks.

"First off, we gave the rights to the bay back to the fishermen, and Carmin's working on a long-term deal that should put an end to that civil war for good. And right now, we're funding as much of the storm rebuild as we can." Kristine hums. "Not sure what comes next, but I have a  _lot_  of plans. I've been in my father's office all week, seeing what crap we should put an end to, what we should do instead."

Kristine reaches down, ruffles Harry's hair. "As for this one, I could've transferred him to a school here, but he has good friends in Benedict's, and he's comfortable there. But in a couple years, when he finishes, he's going to go to a local high school."

"And then Blackwell!" Harry adds.

Max imagines him there, an easel under one arm, a box of paints, pencils and chalk under the other. He weaves through the halls, a smile on his face. 

"Blackwell was made for people like you," Max tells him, a flower of happiness blooming in her chest. "You'll be great. And, Kristine, that's  _incredible._  I actually can't think of a better person to take over. I guess I never thought about what would happen if a good person ran the Prescott businesses." 

"For the first time in my life," Kristine says, "I finally feel like I have... God, a purpose. Something worth sticking around for." She nods at Max. "I'm in this for the long haul, don't you worry about that."

"Max," Harry says, "I drew you something."

"You did?" Max's eyes widen. 

"Yeah. Lemme get it!"

He turns on his heel and makes for the stairs, jogging up them two at a time.

Kristine looks after him, smile fond. 

Max looks around, at the boxes, at the empty bookshelves and tied-up bags of trash. She can't help it, she thinks of Nathan. 

When she glances back at Kristine, she finds the other girl watching her, with a soft glaze in her eyes that suggests she already knows what's on Max's mind. 

"Have you heard from him?" Max asks quietly. 

"He called a lot, the past couple weeks. He's over the moon that I'll be staying here, looking after Harry." Kristine shrugs. "He wishes he could be here, but, he's where he needs to be." 

Max presses her lips together. "I didn't get to see him at all, after. He hasn't... called."

"He will," Kristine answers, firmly. "I know he will. He just has to settle in, you know." 

Max remembers the judge, the courtroom, the weight of the air as the verdict was read out, as the judge gave her sentencing. 

_Guilty, but Mentally Ill._

He had been whisked out of the court straight away. Max had no time to reach him, to say a final goodbye.

Within a few hours, she heard he was already gone. On his way, to a new psychiatric facility. Somewhere out of state, a place much bigger than Dymphna's, a place that houses numerous others like him. Carmin had explained it all to Max afterwards. Basically, he has been committed again, but this time, it's indefinite. 

Max wonders when,  _how_ , he will call. She doesn't have a number for him, no one even told her the name of the new facility. For a moment, she is tempted to ask Kristine for it. But she keeps her mouth closed. 

They both had closure, probably more than they should have gotten. They did get to say a goodbye, one she will treasure in the back of her mind forever, as precious as star dust.

And when he's ready to call, Max will answer. She knows that fact as well as she knows the lines tracing her palms. If they are supposed to make their way back to each other, they will. They will. 

As for now, Max has herself to worry about, herself to drive forward into the future. And she knows, when or if they do find each other again, it'll be in a better place, with better selves, with more certain hearts.

She has learnt a lot about timing, enough to know that now is not theirs. 

But someday waits. Someday sits on the horizon line of a future not yet realized. There, 'Someday' will stay. Until Max is ready. 

Harry bounds back down the stairs, clutching his sketchpad in his hands. His cheeks are flushed, either from the running or his shyness about his artwork, Max can't be sure. 

"It's not very good," Harry says, as a careful opener, moving towards her.

Kristine chuckles. "Damn, so humble."

"Your art is awesome, Harry," Max tells him, "I know that without having to look at it. And you seriously didn't have to draw me anything."

"You're my friend," Harry says, like it's obvious, and Max's heart just about breaks open right there.

He flips the pages, lands on a drawing she can't see yet. He tears it out, carefully, and after a moment of brief hesitation, holds it up for her to take. 

Harry has sketched in color. The result is nothing short of astonishing. The scene in Max's hands seems to leap right off the page, the colors rich and real, too real to just be simple strokes of pencils, and careful shading. She recognizes the scene immediately. A wooden bench, a fruitful garden overflowing with shrubbery and flowers of every size, shape, shade. A tree heavy with the burden of fruiting drips its leaves over the heads of the two people sitting on the bench, as if shielding them from perfect, hot sun. At their feet, a young boy sits, freckled in the light that Max can almost  _feel_  on her own skin, it's so visceral.

The likenesses are incredible. Nathan sits with an arm slung over the back of the bench, his jacket unzipped, a loose and easy smile on his face. He's looking next to him, at sketched Max, her hair much tidier and her face more sharp than it is in real life. Harry has even drawn her camera on her lap, her fingers curled around it protectively. Harry has drawn himself looking up at both of them, his mouth frozen in a wide, grin. 

That day, in the hospital garden. Drawn perfectly. 

"I loved that day," Harry says. He's watching her intently, seems to be searching her face for the first reaction to his art. "Nate was super happy."

"Harry," Max says, and for a long time, that is all she appears capable of saying. Her eyes prick with emotion, her smile seems to tingle. 

"How come you never draw me?" Kristine asks, chucking him playfully on the shoulder.

"You were never home. But I will now." 

"Ooh, draw me with red hair. Like, bright red. I've been thinking about how it might look."

"Harry," Max whispers. "Thank you. I'll... treasure this. Forever."

Harry blushes. "You're welcome."

"Hey," Kristine reaches out, strokes her shoulder. "Don't forget to come back and visit us, okay? I'm going to turn this place around, I'm telling you. You'll be shocked." 

"I'll come back." Max runs her fingers over the sketch, careful to not smudge or affect it in any way. Her eyes feel glassy and wet. She looks up, and smiles, from ear to ear. "I promise."

"Good luck in Washington," Kristine says. "Do us proud."

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Joyce is doing some packing of her own, but unlike the Prescott house, the cardboard boxes lining the Price house hallway carry a cemented sense of finality. 

Max's heart is heavy like wet cement, from the very moment she steps through the front door. Her throat is tight with it, trapping her breath, and she spends the first ten minutes leaning against the kitchen wall, trying not to cry.

"So many memories here," she says, her voice wet. "I can't believe this will be my last time standing in it." 

"Hell, I'm feeling the same way." Joyce has her sleeves rolled up, a bandana keeping her hair out of her eyes. She stands close to Max, looking around at all the barren, empty space. "I won't lie. It hurts something fierce."

The six weeks since the trial have seen Max visit the Prices often, at least three times a week. Any sense of tension or upset in the aftermath of her testimony has long since faded, and now both of them share a very palpable joy in the ordeal being over, at last. Max got to explain her side of the trial, her motivation behind her testimony, and watching understanding dawn in Joyce's eyes had brought Max to tears. The verdict came as a surprise to Joyce, Max was told. She didn't expect a Prescott to ever escape without consequence. His guilty verdict, coupled with the trial's greater exposure of Sean Prescott's Dark Room ring, seem to have cast a great, soothing blanket of closure across both Joyce and David. Joyce has told her that Carmin's words, of Chloe's legacy, hit home. She described it as a visceral switch in her brain. They're taking Carmin's help, sueing Blackwell for failure to notice Nathan's downward spiral, for not protecting their daughter. They seem to find peace in the fact that Chloe's legacy will help so many other kids, and Max couldn't be more glad. 

Until then, they're moving. Renting an idyllic bungalow in Idaho, not by the beach, but beside rolling hills and rivers. A fresh start.

Before, Max had been so furious. How could they leave? The idea of it had fizzled like an enraged electric wire, sparking her blood hot. 

Now, she understands. Because they aren't leaving Chloe behind, they never could. Like Max, Chloe will follow them, in heart, in action, in all they want to see and experience.

"Who bought the house?" Max asks Joyce.

"A young couple. Baby on the way." Joyce's eyes drift to the wall behind Max's head. The photos of Chloe that had once hung there have been boxed for Idaho, leaving shapes of discolored paint behind. "They remind me a lot of William and I, at that age." Joyce splays a hand against the wall, fondly. "I hope they're as happy here, as we were."

Max swallows and stares at Joyce, memorizing every beautiful, familiar line of her kind face, tired but hopeful eyes. 

When Joyce meets her gaze, she smiles sadly, bravely, and reaches out a hand to stroke Max's cheek.

"Now, don't you go spilling tears," she says gently, and only then does Max realize that she's crying. Hot tears roll down her cheeks, as a terrible melancholic sadness sweeps through her, a rolling tide.

"I'm sorry." She wipes roughly at her eyes, laughs a little out of embarrassment. "I'm just -- I'll miss you. So much."

Joyce draws her in for a tight hug. She smells like pancake batter and coffee beans, and the comforting scent of a mother. "I'll miss you, honey. Every day. But you're going to be off amazing folks in Washington, achieving all your wildest dreams. And I'll be cheering you on all the way." She pulls away a little, to dab at the tears staining Max's cheeks. "It's not really goodbye. It's a... see you later. You'll visit, won't you?"

"Of course. As soon as I can." 

"And we'll drop by Washington. A catch-up with your parents is long overdue." She hugs Max again. "I love you, sweetheart."

"I love you too," Max says, sniffing. 

They stand there for a little longer, trading memories, swapping and chuckling at old stories, tears in their eyes. When David comes in from the garage, carrying a box to pack up with tools, he stands and listens as they remember William, Chloe, blistering summers and frosty winters, and all the endlessly perfect days in between.

As they reminisce, Max begins to feel less mournful, and starts to feel lucky. Lucky that she got to have a second family, that she got to have such an incredible best friend, that though their time together is now just memories, they will never gather dust or fade away. Max will have them, always, held snug in her mind, in her heart. Not everyone gets to be so lucky with the people around them. But Max was. Max is. 

David suggests they take a break from packing up, and grab a cup of coffee at the Two Whales. Max agrees quickly, but as she's heading out the door, she lingers by the stairs.

"Would you mind if I took a second," she says, "to say goodbye?"

Joyce smiles, hand on the door handle. "Of course, Max. Take your time. We'll be in the car."

The door shuts, and Max is left alone, with dust and boxes and memories that rise from the walls like songs. 

For the final time, Max heads up the stairs and into what remains of Chloe's bedroom.

Seeing the room so bare, smelling of fresh paint, it isn't the great and overwhelming shock that it had first been. Max knows what to expect when she enters, shoes echoing loudly on the wooden floor. Still, there is a twinge of pain, of sorrow, deep in her gut. She welcomes it, and does not run from it. She feels it, allows it to well up inside her like a dam ready to burst its banks. Max is not afraid of grief anymore. 

There is nothing to sit on, no music to play, no Chloe. Max sits down on the floor, cross-legged, right up against the wall where Chloe's bed used to be. She faces the rest of the room and observes the sunlight coming through the window, golden and gentle. She follows the tiny dust particles, dancing in the light. 

She takes out her camera, and takes a photo. 

She imagines Chloe sitting next to her, one boot resting against Max's Chucks. 

"It seems bigger," Chloe would say, her nose slightly wrinkled as she looks around. "Did I really have all of this space?"

"You had a lot of crap," Max might quip, a smile on her face. "Look, you can actually see the floor in here now."

Chloe yawns. "I preferred my version. This room has... no style now. No  _oomph._ "

Max laughs. "Your room had oomph?"

"Duh! Hella  _oomph!_ "

Max slides down, so that she's lying down now, staring up at the pristine white ceiling. She thinks about childhood sleepovers, of waking up in this room countless times, eyes always on the ceiling. Of waking up here, the morning she and Chloe had kissed, the morning the world suddenly seemed shiny and bright and full of possibilities. When she and Chloe had been kids, they had glued stars to the ceiling, ones that glowed in the dark. 

She imagines them now, glowing somehow in sunlight. 

Max looks up at the ceiling, and what maybe lies beyond it, high, high, high up. Maybe Chloe is looking back. 

She digs into her messenger bag, and gets to her feet. For a moment, she just stands, taking it all in. Breathing in the smells, the sights, the taste of polished wood and paint. 

Chloe stands next to her, arms folded. 

She looks down, to the Sharpie clutched in Max's hand.

"Hey Banksy, if you graffiti up the place, the new owners might give the keys back."

Max smiles. "I'm just drawing something small."

She crosses the room, to the far wall where the stereo used to be. On the skirting board, with tiny, delicate lines, Max draws a small butterfly. 

"What's it mean?" Chloe asks, peering at it.

"That we were here," Max replies. "And we always will be."

 

 

* * *

 

 

The dormitories are  _crowded_ with people. Move-out day always brings chaos, shouting, stuff breaking and luggage thumping against the ground, and this afternoon it's no different. Max picks her way carefully up the hall, avoiding suitcases, parents, piles of clothes and textbooks. She manages to make it to her room, and pushes the door open. She leaves it open.

Her room now resembles how she found it, way back in September. Stripped, bare mattress. A couch, an empty desk. Empty closet, empty shelves. The wall looks like it's missing a limb somehow, without the photo memorial wall. The floor seems gaping and strange without her carpet. The place is too clean. The only imprint of Max Caulfield that remains are her suitcases, leaning against the couch, waiting for later when her parents will swing by to pick it up and take it all back to Seattle. 

She has no stereo anymore, so she chooses a song on her iPod and lets it play from the mattress. She spends the next twenty minutes flitting from one side of the room to the other, gathering the last little bits, her shoes, some books, any trash lying around. She opens both windows and lets the air in. She sits down on the mattress and looks around, and tries to picture who will move in here in September. Will she fill the room with books Max would never, ever read? Will she have some gaudy bedspread or something with cartoons? Will she be messy, clean or somewhere in between? Will she lie on this bed and look up at the ceiling and worry about the same things Max did?

Probably not, she thinks, smirking. No, the problems that Max encountered here were one-in-a-lifetime shit. Whoever moves in here will find themselves ensnared by worries about homework, tests, parties, boys and girls. Max is glad. That's all they should ever have to worry about.

She's in the middle of cleaning out her desk drawers when a knock comes at the door. 

She turns, a little surprised at who she finds there.

"Hayden?" 

"Hey, Maxster. Can I come in?"

"Sure." She straightens, and knows she's frowning, wondering what possessed someone like Hayden Jones to wander in here. 

He looks much better, no longer hobbling around on crutches. He's dressed smart, in a button-up and jeans, and an excited looking smile that can't help but make her a little nervous. She's only seen him that excited about weed, before.

"What brings you around these parts?" she asks, leaning against the desk. 

"Wanted to run something by you." He looks around. "Damn. I just cleaned out my room, too. Shit's weird."

"Scary," Max agrees. She tilts her head. "So, what's up?"

Hayden pauses. He has something in his hand, some kind of flier, or pamphlet. "Do you remember that chat we had in the hall, a few months ago?"

Recent events have cleared Max's head of anything that doesn't pertain to a storm or some traumatic event. Apologetically, she shakes her head. "Uh, jog my memory?"

"It's cool, you just mentioned that the Vortex Club was seriously messed up. You said Blackwell needed something new." 

The words rise some vague familiarity in her memory. "Oh, okay."

"You got me thinkin', is all. Since then, it was bugging me that Blackwell was going to be known as this fucked-up place, with these shady parties. Like, this elitist hellhole. That's not a cool reputation, especially when this is a damn good school for creative people."

Max nods along. "I'm with you, Hayden."

"So was Wells. I talked to him about it, I said that something had to change. So, recently we came up with something, and I just wanted to run it by you."

He holds out the flier in his hands. Max takes it and realizes it's not some kind of pamphlet, but actually an information booklet of sorts. 

And on the front, is a photograph of Chloe. 

Max is taken aback. "What is this?"

"Hear me out." Hayden taps the top of the little book, and Max notices the title of the thing for the first time. She had been too stunned by Chloe's photograph to notice.

"The Chloe Price Memorial Scholarship," Max reads aloud. She blinks, dazed.

"You got in on a scholarship, right?"

Max nods, eyes slowly widening.

"Well, this one is a new project. Not grades based, literally just interviews and portfolios, people who are genuinely hype about what they make and do. We're using the money Sean Prescott invested in the Vortex Club to fund it, with the first scholarship offers available for this September." He turns over the booklet, where information is listed in bullet-point format. "It'll be a scholarship for underprivileged kids, kids who get good grades but don't have the dollars to afford tuition. They'll not only get tuition money, but textbooks, art or photography equipment, all that shit."

"So, in Chloe's memory," Max says slowly, "dozens of kids, who never would have got the chance before, will get to come here and study their passion?"

"You like it?" Hayden looks hopeful. "I still have to finalize it with Chloe's parents, but, I wanted your opinion too."

"My opinion is..." Max looks up at him, jaw practically unhinged. "Yes.  _Yes_. She would be so psyched by this." 

"Yeah? Alright!" Hayden slaps his palm against hers, in a jovial high-five. "Awesome! Looks like it can go ahead. Plus, Nate's sister said she'd keep funding it indefinitely, after the Vortex money we already have runs out. So it looks like a sure thing." 

"Hayden, I've cried a lot today and you're literally about to make me cry again."

Hayden laughs. "Whoa, no tears! This is good news. A good thing."

"It's awesome," Max agrees. " _Beyond_  cool."

After Hayden leaves, Max sits with the scholarship booklet on her lap, thumbing through its few pages with a smile that aches her cheeks. Now, it looks as though Chloe's legacy will make an even bigger impact, and Max hadn't even thought that possible.

An upbeat song comes on her iPod, and before she knows it, she's dancing around her empty, barren room like a maniac. And she doesn't care. After months spent pinned by an oppressive, black sadness, Max feels light and free and capable of making it on her own. She's going to dance if she wants to.

But when her foot catches on something beneath the desk, as she goes dancing by it, she is suddenly grounded in reality. 

Of course, she thinks, a strange wave of undefinable emotion passing over her. 

She almost had forgotten them. 

Max sinks to her knees, peers beneath the desk.

The boxes. 

Her reaction to rediscovering them is perplexing. A myriad of emotions come, each one burying beneath her skin. The first one that she becomes aware of is grief, so familiar to her now that it is as second nature as blinking. Max pulls out the boxes, one after the other, and runs her fingernail along the thick tape. Grief changes, it slides into apprehension. She bites her lower lip and lays her hands flat on top of the box, hearing items shifting around inside. 

Apprehension shifts to curiosity. 

Max takes a deep breath. Curiosity molds itself into a pulsing, comforting knowledge. The knowledge is this: that she is ready to open these boxes. She is fed up of avoiding them. After everything she has been through, the effort of avoiding anything at all feels irrelevant, tiresome and wasteful. 

 _Moving forward,_  Max thinks, with a nod to herself. This is all part of it.

She grabs a pair of scissors from her suitcase, and kneels down in front of the first box.

She cuts it open. Pulls back the roof of it, and delves her hands inside.

Her hands find clothes. Neatly folded, and familiar. Denim jeans with thready rips in the knees, two worn leather jackets, long-sleeved shirts that are softer than feather. She pulls out more than dozen thrasher shirts, and recognizes only a handful of the band names stitched into the center. One of the last items, towards the bottom of the box, is a navy beanie. 

Max holds it like something fragile, tracing her fingers over it. 

When she finds tiny strands of blue hair, still stuck to the inside material, her eyes fill with tears.

Chloe is next to her, Chloe is peering into the box with a clear fascination. 

"You should keep it all," she says. "That's why Mom gave you all this crap, right?"

"Hey! It's not crap."

"Well, it's useless gathering dust in that box. Pack it. Wear it. Go to Washington and rock my oomph."

Max folds it all up again and, instead of putting it back in the box, puts it in a colorful pile on the floor. Beside her suitcases. 

Her tears are not running, but rather gathering sticky and wet in her eyes. They blur her vision a little and she dries them with the hem of her t-shirt. Max has learned it's better to cry than to hold it all in. It makes her chest feel scrubbed out raw, but it's a good kind of ache. A healing ache.

She reaches for the next box, cuts the tape.

This box holds no clothes, but is instead filled halfway with small trinkets, pieces of paper, random objects.

Without even delving in, Max knows immediately that this is the box that will make the tears fall. 

It  _radiates_  memory.

It  _glows_  Chloe. 

"Oh my gosh," Max whispers.

She swallows thickly, her throat dry. Many of the items, big and small, demand her attention. They wait patiently, for her to pick them up.

With trembling hands, she picks up a stack of old, worn CDs. They are missing their original artwork covers, replaced by colored-in paper and Chloe's wavy handwriting. Some are full albums, others are mixtapes, with names that seem to chart the whole of Chloe's life. A mixtape of the pop top forty they used to listen to as kids is succeeded by upbeat pop rock, followed by uproarious punk rock. She finds indie albums that she herself has on her own iPod, as well as various soundtracks to Chloe's favourite movies, Blade Runner among them.  

At the bottom of the pile, Max finds a mixtape _she_  made for her best friend at the age of twelve, complete with her artwork of them as grinning pirates. Her tears splash on the cover, and quickly Max wipes them off. 

She takes all of the CDs and adds them to the pile of Chloe's things, beside her suitcase.

She comes upon Chloe's make-up, what little she wore, in its vibrant colors. She keeps that, too. Sifting through the box, she soon comes upon another familiar item, dripping of memory. An old, ancient phone long since devoid of life, decorated personally by the two of them in stickers they found in an old magazine. It had been the first phone Chloe had gotten, and not wanting to be left out, Max had requested an identical one for her birthday the following month. 

They would talk for hours, well into the night, until their data had been completely eaten up and both their mothers would heave heavy, irritated sighs. But it had never mattered. Max treasures those sleepy conversations, like individual, delicate jewels. Chloe had been gifted with the ability to make Max laugh  _hard_ , at any time, over any little thing, and that is what Max thinks of when she looks down at the old phone in her hands. Laughter, endless laughter.

She pulls out a beautiful dream catcher, a couple more articles of clothing that the first box didn't have enough room for. She finds books from their time as tweens and before that, mostly thumbed-through paperbacks when Chloe had a genuine interest in reading. She used to highlight her favourite passages or things she found funny, and lend them to Max, eagerly awaiting her opinion. They're mostly adventure stories, with sprawling illustrations. Max is surprised to find that she remembers every word, every twist of plot line. 

She opens a few of them, flips through pages of Chloe's handwriting, circling, neon-yellow stained highlighting. The books have long since lost that fresh, crisp smell of page, but arguably now they smell of something even better: time, love, excitement. 

By the time she reaches the bottom of the last box, Max has quite the mountain of Chloe memorabilia beside her. And there is not even a slight hesitation to not take absolutely all of it with her, to Seattle. She imagines her campus apartment next semester, and all of these things adorning the walls, shelves, closets. 

Memories are not something to run away from, Max has realized. They are something to embrace, even if it makes you cry. Because if you cry, it only means that the memories are all the more precious. And Max feels so lucky, to have experienced them. 

Max is struck with a wave of reluctance, when all that remains of this box is a handful of folded-up pieces of paper. How had she put this off until now? She definitely feels a little manic, sitting in her barren dorm, crying and sniffing as her chest aches with nostalgia and grief, but it's a pleasant bunch of sobs. It feels like a release. She should never have been afraid of these boxes. She almost feels ashamed to have left them under the desk for so long.

But it's alright. She's opened them now, learned her lesson.

And she will cherish what remains, these last few slips of paper.

She reaches for them. They are dry and old-feeling, and when she turns over the first, she recognizes the handwriting as belonging to a youngish Chloe. 

The letter is dated, in the top right-handed corner. Late 2008. 

 

_Dear Max,_

_~~Hey! It's Chloe. Remember~~ _

_~~Hi Max! How is Seattle? How are you~~ _

_~~I wish you were~~ _

_~~I really miss~~ _

 

And that's it. The page is taken up by crossed-out sentences, Chloe never appearing to settle on a one she liked.

 _She wrote to me? After I left?_  Max holds the letter up, closer to her eyes, as if the words might swim off the page and prove her wrong. 

Chloe had never mentioned any letters, or that she had written to Max at all.

After Max had moved, contact had been strictly Christmas cards, which soon faded into empty silence on both ends.

But Chloe had  _written._  Or tried to, it seems. 

Max finds another letter, this time dated in 2009. 

 

_Dear Max,_

_~~Remember me? I just wanted to~~ _

_~~Something beyond fucked happened. My mom~~ _

_~~His name is David but he's such a~~ _

_~~I just need~~ _

_~~I miss you~~ _

 

Like the last, this letter is abandoned halfway through. Never sent, probably buried somewhere in the back of Chloe's room. 

She finds more, dated sporadically throughout 2010, 2011, 2012, and never sent. 

Max is baffled to find 2013 dating the final letter. The summer of 2013, to be exact. Right around the time Max discovered she was coming back to Arcadia.

Chloe's handwriting is different. It's almost angry, etched hard into the paper, antagonizing the neat lines. The pen she had been using was blotchy, and the ink stains remain, smudged black-and-blue. 

 

_Dear Max,_

_~~I hate this fucking town and everything it takes away~~ _

_~~My friend disappeared and maybe you could~~ _

_~~Why did you piss off and~~ _

_~~Are you even~~ _

_~~I wish you were~~ _

_~~I we WE had~~ _

 

The letter ends, abandoned once more. It looks as though it had been crumpled up, and then unrolled sometime after, only to be crumpled again.

Max is shaking. She raises the letter and holds it, against her chest. She smooths out the wrinkles in the page like she could smooth the fissures of time, and all it had done. 

Chloe is cross-legged on her bare mattress. Max imagines her with slow blinking eyes, and a guarded expression. 

"I never knew you wrote to me," Max says, her breath hitching audibly. 

Chloe is on her couch, leaning forward. Watching. 

"Keep them," Chloe says, or maybe it's Max's mind that echoes the words. Soft. "Write me back."

Max folds the letters, each individual one, and slips them into her journal. 

An idea comes. It feels like pressure at her temples, spreading larger and larger until it is acknowledged. 

Max opens her journal, starts a new page. Her hand hesitates on the pen she picks up. 

After a minute or two, she inks two words.

_Dear Chloe_

She has a lot to tell Chloe. A whole year's worth. 

And after that, she'll buy a new journal at college. A symbol of her fresh start. 

And she'll write Chloe then, too, catching her up on every single day. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It's nightfall, by the time she finishes writing. The dormitory has fallen quiet, almost still. There are still a few doors opening and closing, still a few parents or relatives trickling in and out. 

Max hears her own parents arrive, their chattering voices rising up from the end of the hall. 

Max's hand is filled with an aching burn, the pen is surely about to run out of ink, and she has a nice callus where it had sat between her thumb and forefinger.

But she feels...  _incredible_. Like she used to be in chains, but they loosened with every scrape of her words against the page. Her parents find her sitting by all her luggage, right as she closes the journal and slips it into her messenger bag. 

"Hey, great job cleaning this place out," her dad says, already making to swing a few of her bags onto his shoulders. 

"I can't believe this" her mom says, a little breathlessly, as she moves around the room. "A whole year gone by."

Max has the scars, physical and emotional, to prove it had been the longest year of her life. In every sense of the word. But still, here it sits, ready to end. 

And begin anew, for someone else. 

"We'll load all this up," her dad tells her. He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. "See you in Seattle, kiddo."

"How long do you think you'll be?" her mom asks curiously. 

"I'm... not sure, actually," Max says.

"Well, it's a long summer," her dad retorts, "and she has nowhere to be until August. I say take as long as you want." 

Max smiles at her mom. "Road trips need to be long," she agrees. "But don't worry. I'll be home soon." 

Her mom draws her in for a warm hug, cheek pressed atop her head. "I know you will. Enjoy it, sweetie. I hope you have the time of your life."

Her dad winces. "But not  _too_  much fun. Just got the car fixed, after all." 

Max laughs. "Honestly, even if it's the most boring road trip of all time, that's actually still a blast for me. It's been quite the year." 

"It definitely has." Her mom looks around, touches the wall fondly. "Well, let's get this all in our car and we can say goodbye outside. Meet you there?"

Max nods, smiles. 

The room seems to stare at her, after they leave. It seems to be holding its breath. 

Max sits down on the edge of the mattress, feels every creak and groan that had permeated so many nights sleep. 

She doesn't belong here anymore. She's on the road to different rooms and bigger dreams than these walls could hold.

Max stands, looping her messenger bag around her shoulder. At the door, she takes one last photo.

She flips off the light, plunging the room into darkness. She shuts the door.

On the white board, she writes  _Goodbye._

When she turns and looks down the hall, her heart swells. Everybody else has written the same thing on their boards.

A sea of goodbyes. 

In the foyer of the dormitories downstairs, something astonishing catches her eye.

For the first time, well,  _ever_ , something is sticking out of her dorm mailbox. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The sun is setting, and the sky over Arcadia Bay is liquid gold. 

Max is driving, the windows down to circulate that sweet, early summer heat throughout her car. In the passenger seat, Warren is scrolling through his iPod, thumbing through his recently created playlist which he has appropriately named  _GRADUATION ROAD-TRIP._

Squashed in the backseat are Kate, Victoria and Dana, the three engrossed in an animated conversation about their various colleges. Kate will be studying theology in Washington, Victoria strutting the Parisian streets, while Dana is off to San Francisco to dig her hands into fashion design. Warren, to the surprise of no one, won the internship, and his life is all but neatly planned out for him. Max couldn't be happier for them.

Trevor drives behind, his car holding Justin, Zachary, Juliet and Alyssa. Brooke is meeting them when they get to Portland, their first stop. 

When they decided to take a road trip, their destinations actually weren't important. They've decided to start in Portland and pick a direction from there, at random, and where they end up is anybody's guess. Max's excitement drums through her veins, like fire. It's the best ending to this year, the best way to usher in the next chapter in all their lives.

And she is going to soak up every glorious moment. Her camera will never be out of her hands.

"I gotta pee," Warren complains.

"God, thank you for that vital piece of info," Victoria hisses. 

"I told you to go before we got in the car," Max groans, reaching across the space between them to swat at him.

"I forgot! You were all rushing me."

"Can you hold it?" Kate winces.

"It's a  _long_  way to Portland." Dana adds. 

"And we're driving right by the ocean," Victoria says, suddenly smirking. "Think about it, Graham. All that  _water_ , all those crashing  _waves_ \--"

Warren squirms in his seat. He shoots Max a desperate look. "Can you pull over?"

Max rolls her eyes, as Victoria proceeds to make gushing faucet sounds in the back of the car. 

"Stop!" Warren exclaims. "You're gonna make me--"

"What are you, six years old?" Victoria interrupts. "You can't just hold it?"

"Not when you're talking about it!"

Kate raises her hand. "Max, can I move to the passenger seat?"

"Oh no!" Dana argues. "You're not leaving me to sit beside those two all the way to Portland! I'll go crazy."

"At least it looks like there's no rain today," Victoria muses, far too innocently. "Imagine, if it just started to come down. All those drops, just  _trickling_  down--"

" _Max!_ " Warren urges, wide-eyed.

Max snorts. "Fine, I'll pull over. There's an outhouse on the forest trail."

" _Ew_ , he's going to use an outhouse?" Victoria looks appalled. "You're going to come back with a fucking disease."

"Would you prefer I go right here in your designer water bottle?" Warren snaps.

" _No_ ," all three of the girls in the back simultaneously hiss.

"I'm pulling over," Max declares. "Look, there's the forest trail. Wave Trevor down to wait behind us." 

Both cars ease to a stop at the base of the woods. Warren practically falls out of the car and takes off in a sprint, disappearing between the trees, in the direction of the midway point between the clifftop and the trail where the outhouse sits.

Max turns off the ignition. She taps her fingers against the steering wheel for a moment, thinking.

"Hey," she says, "do you guys mind if I head up to the top of the trail? I'll be five, ten minutes tops."

"How come?" Kate asks, with interest.

"It's a nice place to say goodbye," Max answers. "And, one last photo op." 

They agree it's a good idea, and a moment later Max has slipped from the car with her camera, and is making her way up the winding, beaten trail. 

God knows how many times she has come this way. The dust is as familiar beneath her feet as it's ever been, scratching under her shoes. But this time is different, and she feels the weighty finality with every step, every moment the incline steepens. This could be the last time she walks this trail, for a very long while.

There are still many trees down throughout the woods. The town has been hard at work clearing the ones that were unsaveable, but some remain that are still attached to their roots or bark, the branches keeled over as if in lazy sleep.

The woods are so quiet, too. Bathed in a peaceful silence, broken only by the chirp of a bird or rustling of a small animal.

Max breathes in the clean air, fills her lungs up with it to the brim. 

When she gets to the top, she almost expects to find the lighthouse sitting there, like always.

But no, the space where it had sat for decade after decade is still empty. The grass around it has started to get its color back, and even grow over the flat patch where the lighthouse had been.

It will be rebuilt, Max knows, but it won't be the same. It'll just be an ordinary structure, no mysticism about it, no secrets. Just a lighthouse, guiding the way. 

Max holds her camera in her hands, bag brushing against her hip. 

She moves towards the edge of the cliff, and over the serene cerulean ocean, she smiles down at Arcadia Bay.

It is bathed in soft sunlight, the picture of a seaside town. Damage is still visible when you know where to look for it, mostly in the edges of town. But it looks incredible compared to six weeks ago, and somehow, more incredible than it ever did. In the rebuilding, buildings were given a gleaming new coat of paint, new roofs, new shiny windows that seem to capture all of the sunlight, and glint it right back. 

Boats, commercial and leisure ones, bob gently near the shore. Pops of bright color on a deep blue canvas. In a few more weeks, there will be more boats, more fish, more activity. The bay will be better than ever. 

Max raises her camera and snaps a photograph. The town seems to leap out of the frame, pulsing with color and life. 

Max walks backwards, until her back legs hit off a solid shape of smooth, gleaming wood.

She turns, and sits down, on top of the newly erected bench. 

An engraving runs the top length of the bench.

_IN MEMORY OF WILLIAM AND CHLOE PRICE_

Donated by Kristine only three weeks after the storm, it looks as though it were always meant to be here.

Max sits down, facing the sea. Her hair lifts slightly, in the light breeze.

No matter where the world takes her, whatever path she takes that leads her away, Max will never forget this place and what it gave her. And what it took away. Those two elements balance on a heavy scale, always lifting, sinking, remembering. She tips her head back against the wood, and lets the fading bars of sunlight warm her face. 

Chloe is next to her. Chloe is smiling, eyes fixed on the horizon line and its endless possibilities. 

Down below, at the base of the trail, cars and friends wait for Max. She's eager to explore, see, adventure, before the new chapter begins. She has no idea what it will hold, or what it will bring her, but the warm knowledge that she's going to be alright is nestled deep in her consciousness. If this year has taught her anything, it's that she is nowhere as hopelessly alone as she believed herself to be. There are always people watching over her, guiding her along, the way the beam of a lighthouse guides the sea.

She's not healed, she's not miraculously fixed of her terrible grief, her regret. That's impossible. Time may heal but that healing will always be fragile, as easily crackable as delicate glass. But now Max knows that, if she breaks, she can be easily put back together. She no longer feels close to drowning, pinned by weight of her own burdensome pain. No, now every inhale feels like breathing new life into tired lungs, rejuvenating a spirit that is incapable of being broken for good.

Max opens her eyes and reaches her hand into her messenger bag, drawing out what had been stuck in her dorm mailbox. 

A postcard.

She stares down at the photograph, a landscape portrait of a serene meadow overflowing with bright yellow flowers, so bright they appear to glow gold. 

She turns it over. 

Nathan has written his new address at the bottom, and above that, just five words.

 

_Dear Max,_

_Tell me something._

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ROLL CREDITS.
> 
> You guys. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. To say that I am overwhelmed by the response this fic received is the understatement of the century. I truly don't have the words to express how much I appreciate everyone who took the time to read this and/or leave some thoughts and love. You are all unbelievably wonderful and I wish I could give you all cake. I hope you enjoyed reading these final chapters and the whole story overall as much as I absolutely adored writing it, and exploring the nuances of these wonderful characters. I aimed for a fair, happy and optimistic ending, and I hope I delivered.
> 
> I've been asked a lot about a potential sequel to this, and while I originally planned a one-shot that is set a couple years down the line, I'm not going to promise it will be anytime soon. Truthfully I'm not as involved nor that passionate about fandom as I used to be, and on top of that I have barely any time on my hands these days (as you probably noticed through the increasingly slower updates!!), but if my passion for fandom writing returns, you can bet I'll be back writing a continuation of this as best I can. As for now, though, I have nothing further planned. But who knows, maybe I'll see you all again for Life Is Strange 2!!
> 
> In the meantime, endless gratitude, best wishes and much love to each and every one of you, and wishing you all a wonderful summer. THANK YOU. <3


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